An Unlikely Match
by Chaotic-Theoretician
Summary: When Sherlock runs into a girl in the street, his life begins to change as he offers the teenage girl a place to live in his home and discovers that she may be a female version of him.
1. Chapter 1

"Watson? _Watson!_" The insistent cry of Sherlock Holmes, infamous sleuth, rang throughout the building. There was an insistent pounding from his room, as though something were being smashed against something else. Sherlock adjusted the hammer in his grip and swung again against the metal box, simultaneously calling out again, "_WATSON!_"

Watson, eyes rolling, opened the door to Sherlock's room and stepped inside, immediately trying to locate the source of Holmes's aggravation. He found Sherlock pounding away at a dented metal box with a hammer, as though it were some device of pure evil. Eyes widening in confusion, astonishment, and slight horror, he stepped forward, hands out, and exclaimed, "What the devil are you _doing_, Holmes?"

Stopping his next swing in mid-air, Sherlock panted, "I am conducting an experiment, by which your help is necessary."

"Lord, Holmes," Watson growled, shaking his head as he tossed his hat onto one of Sherlock's unkempt chairs. "What is it _this_ time?"

"You see," Sherlock began, dropping the hammer to his side and gesturing at the box, "what I'm trying to figure out is how many blows from a hammer of light weight will wreck the object inside the box. I designed the box to have an insulated layer between the metal walls, with which I have filled in with concrete. Plain as day, you can see that there are very few dents in this contraption, and the seal has not in any way been broken. I hope that, should this method work and such a lock can be attached to it that it is not the easiest way to get into the box, I shall have solved the problem of thievery of the supposed 'safe box'. Now, what I need you - "

"Stop. I've had enough." Watson shook his head and pried the hammer from Sherlock's fingers. Stooping, he picked up the metal box, went over to the window, and threw the contraption out into the alleyway. It clattered and banged against the cobblestone loudly, by which the box fell apart. Sherlock stared after it, eyes wide, a look of disappointment crossing his face.

"Damn," he said. "I should have strengthened the corners. The second one will accommodate that modification, if only I can lay my hands on some more building materials and concrete." He turned away from the window as Watson leaned out to survey the damage.

"Holmes," Watson asked, "what was _in_ that box?"

"Nothing important," Sherlock muttered, shaking his head as he rummaged through his piles of handwritten papers. "Just one of your glasses."

Watson stiffened and rushed back to the window. "Which one?"

"I believe it was the faceted crystal glass," Sherlock answered, distracted. He began to ramble to himself, sidetracked by the modification to what he had deemed as the true 'safe box'.

"The _faceted_ crystal glass?" Watson cried, voice rising in pitch. He stormed over to Sherlock and grabbed him by the shoulders. "What the devil have you _done_ with my glass!"

"Nothing." Sherlock pulled away from Watson's grasp and grabbed at the coat draped over one of his hardback chairs. "You're the one who threw the thing out the window."

"_Holmes!_ What have I _told_ you about taking my things?"

Sherlock drew on his coat and grabbed his hat, placing it deliberately on his forehead. "Shall we go for a walk, Watson? Perhaps the glass survived the fall." And he was out the door before Watson could open his mouth to speak.

They made their way out into the sidewalk and, hands deep in their pockets, set off at a leisurely pace. After determining that Watson's second-favorite faceted crystal glass had been smashed into smithereens from the fall, they headed to the north, talking in low tones as they swept past other Londoners who seemed to have nothing better to do than roam the streets. Though Watson was quite unsure as to why Sherlock had, for once, wanted to go for a walk without having an open case in mind, he did not question his companion. He merely listened to the man talk.

"You haven't had a case in weeks," Watson suddenly pointed out, glancing at his friend.

"Not a serious case, my dear Watson," Sherlock said, looking hard at the ground upon which he strode upon. "Just the mere simple ones - ones that are easily solvable at home, without ever leaving the sofa."

"You need to find something to do - _other_ than your ridiculous experiments."

"Ridiculous? Like which ones?"

"Like the bloody flies, with you plucking away at your violin to make 'order from chaos'."

"It really worked!" Sherlock shook his head and sighed. "Sometimes, Watson, you fail to appreciate all that I strive to accomplish. It makes me wonder why - _Oof!_"

Sherlock nearly fell on his butt. Glancing around in surprise, he noticed an individual sprawled out before him, hastily scrambling to their feet. Notebooks, he instantly deduced, lay scattered about that person, opened to random pages. Clothed in a hat and coat similar to that of Sherlock's attire, Sherlock assumed that the individual was a male. He stooped to pick up the notebook which he had, in part, caused to scatter about the cobblestone.

"I'm so sorry," he said, glancing up at Watson, who stood back and watched the scene with arms crossed over his chest, a soft smirk twitching his lips. "I do hope that I haven't ruined anything."

The man shook his head, his face concealed from Sherlock as he tried to gather his belongings off of the ground. Holmes stooped lower - literally crouched on his feet - in an attempt to see the man. However, his eyes were drawn to a notebook spread out at his feet, opened to the first page. A title, written in thin, slanted scrawl, spread out across the first line.

_Symbols: Symbology and Symbolism of Modern Society_

Intrigued, Sherlock picked up the notebook and perused the page, the other notebooks he had collected balanced upon his left knee. After turning the page, he became puzzled, not by the words but by the scrawl itself. A slender hand reached out and plucked the notebook from his grasp, and he looked up at the person, startled. His gaze took in a well-defined, soft, feminine face and met deep, endless pools of brown eyes. Long, fluttering lashes, a smoothly curved nose, small but thin lips - all this he took in a glance, along with the flustered expression on the person's face. He handed the rest of the notebooks over hesitantly, captivated and confused simultaneously.

"Thank you," the woman said with a voice light and almost musical. The maturity in her tone rang defiantly through the air.

"You're very welcome, madam," Sherlock said, for once feeling at a loss for words.

Watson's gaze flicked between the two. "Madam?"

The woman nodded her head in Watson's direction, her eyes drawn back in an instant to Sherlock's, before trying to leave. Sharply, Holmes stepped into her path, his hand out to stay her, puzzling Watson to the utmost extent. Surely this was not Irene Adler, the only woman he had ever seen Sherlock stay with a gentle touch - was it? Perhaps...

"I couldn't help but read what was written in one of those notebooks," Sherlock said. "It's intriguing - interesting, to all extents."

"I'm guessing you say that because I'm a woman," the lady stated, an almost hostile tone in her voice.

Sherlock stared at her for a long moment. "Yes."

"Such an honest and truthful gentleman," the woman said, shifting the books in her arms. "Had you not run into me, I would have treated you like any other. Odd, how that seems to play off my mentality." She shook her head and tried to make leave again.

"I was hoping," Sherlock began, stepping into her path once more, Watson slowly receding from his view, "that I would be able to read more of what you've written."

"Surely you wouldn't want to." The woman shook her head again, modesty creeping into her voice. "Such work is not worthy to be read by such an educated individual as yourself."

At this, both Sherlock and Watson's faces registered surprise, though Sherlock's not so evident. "And how did you know what?" Watson piped up behind the woman, stepping into her path as well.

"A man who looks with such a calculating gaze and speaks with such an easy, confident manner is either of nobility or knowledge - of which I can tell is the latter, for neither of you look as though you were of high class," the woman stated blandly, speaking as though it were obvious.

Recovering from his astonishment quickly, Sherlock removed his hat and bowed, arm extended towards the direction of his current place of residence. "It would be a delight to have you for some tea, even a meal."

Watson nearly staggered back into the street. Holmes, inviting a woman he met on the street into the house? Watson couldn't believe it, and he could tell that, in some part, Holmes couldn't believe himself either. The woman bit her bottom lip and glanced between Sherlock and Watson, adjusting her notebooks nervously, her hat tipped awkwardly on her head. She glanced in a vain attempt to read Big Ben, and then shook her head.

"Only for a while," she conceded, looking Sherlock hard in the eyes. "I'm sure there is not much to be discussed, as I am not an entertainable guest."

"And there I must deny your claim," Sherlock said, smirking to himself. He placed his hat upon his head and crooked his left elbow, extending it to the woman. She glanced at it warily, as though uncertain, before looping one arm through. "Allow me to take your books." Sherlock took the books from her hand and balanced them effectively in his other arm. "Come along, Watson," he called over his shoulder, registering the deep and profound look of confusion on his companion's face.

As they walked to Sherlock's home, the woman fidgeted ever so slightly - not necessarily uncomfortable, Sherlock noticed, but more in anticipation and dread. He did his best to give her the space she needed, though he wanted nothing more than to find out who the woman was and why she, herself, seemed to be so educated when she was not of high class, either.

"What is your name?" Holmes asked, though he had seen her name written on the first page of her notebook.

"Jane Heathrow," she answered, looking at him directly. "And you?"

"Sherlock Holmes, at your service."

"Ah! So I was correct in my assumption." The woman glanced over her shoulder at Watson and said, "That must be Dr. Watson."

"You've heard of us." It was more statement than question on Sherlock's part.

"How could one not?" She smiled, something that nearly sent Sherlock's heart into a rapid-fire succession of palpitations. "The sleuth and his trusty companion, with whom he can thoroughly rely on."

In an attempt to control his excitement, Sherlock walked the woman to the rest of the way in silence and led her up to the room, Watson following close behind. Opening the door to his room, Sherlock suddenly winced as he realized how cluttered and unkempt it was.

"If I had known I would be entertaining a visitor," Sherlock said, "I would have tidied up the place. Shall I take your coat and hat?"

"Oh, thank you." Jane handed the articles over and took the notebooks from Sherlock's hands.

Watson stopped by Jane's side and said, "If he were to have any other visitor, he would never had bothered 'tidying up the place', I assure you. Holmes isn't one to do so."

"I am standing here, Watson!" Sherlock shook his head, draped Jane's jacket and hat on a chair, and waved Watson away, saying, "Go fetch us some tea, or at least tell the nanny to."

"I can hear you, Mr. Holmes!" The nanny cried shrilly, rummaging around in what one would assume was the kitchen. "It will be right out!"

Sherlock nodded his head and cleared off one of the chairs, offering it with an almost gentlemanly flourish to Jane. She took it with a smile and settled down into it, legs crossed in an almost awkward manner that caught Sherlock's eyes, despite the fact that he was trying to concentrate on the woman herself. Unlike others, whom he could deduce many things from in a glance, he could not read her so easily, especially her eyes, which he found himself swimming away upon. Watson roused him from his thoughts by pulling up a chair beside him.

"What is it that you do, Miss Heathrow?" Watson asked, taking up the conversation whereas Sherlock could not.

Sherlock immediately noticed the slight tension that twisted through Jane's jaw. She moistened her lips and answered, "I do not work, Dr. Watson."

"A student, then?" Watson gestured at the notebooks.

"No, she is no student," Sherlock pointed out before Jane could reply. He propped his chin up with his fist and stared intently at her. "She has seen very little labor, she is unmarried and has never been engaged, and she possesses a maturity that seems...unnaturally smooth."

Jane only responded with a slight widening of the eyes. Watson turned to Sherlock and said, "'Unnaturally smooth'?"

"Unnaturally smooth," Sherlock echoed. He looked at Jane directly with his piercing gaze. "I can't tell, and excuse me for asking, but how old are you?"

Jane inhaled slowly and exhaled heavily, regarding Sherlock with an indicpherable stare. "Even in your great deductions, you sorely underestimate who I am, Mr. Holmes. I - "

"Please, Sherlock," Holmes interjected. Watson could've fallen off his chair. Since when did Holmes ever allow a woman to address him by something other than his surname?

"Yes, _Sherlock_," Jane continued, eyes flickering, "I will concede to nothing but the truth - I am a mere sixteen years old."

At this, Sherlock leapt from his chair, pivoted sharply on his heel, and left the room, startling both Jane and Watson.

"I assure you," Watson said, turning to Jane, "that that has _never_ happened before. Excuse me."

And he followed Holmes.

* * *

**A/N:** This was a fanfiction I started on DeviantArt until the website gave me a nasty virus that eventually made me wipe out my profile on my computer. It was a bloody mess, I'll tell you.

Anyway, this is Chapter 1 of a multiple chapter fanficition, and I hope you like it. _Sherlock Holmes_ is one of my favorite movies, and so I decided to write a fanfiction. One day, Jane Heathrow popped into my head and said, "Hullo, guess what? I'm a lot like Sherlock, and I would just _love_ to meet him. I don't suppose we could run into each other on the street, could we?" (It was quite comical, actually.) So, I wrote her into the story, and the chapters that follow cultivate the relationship between Holmes and Jane. (There may be a little jealousy on Watson's part, indicating slight hints of H/W slash.)

This was rated T because I have a chapter in here where Irene Adler shows up and tries to put her moves on Sherlock. I used the word sexy in there, I think...or the word sexiness. Anyhow, that's the only reasons it's rated T. (Of course, there may be violence later on.)

I appreciate good reviews! Thank you!


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock Holmes had stepped into the next room and was pacing when Watson found him. Shutting the door behind him, Watson approached Sherlock with a puzzled look on his face, trying to decipher Sherlock's rambling. Sherlock turned on him abruptly, eyes wide with almost boyish excitement. His hair, already mussed, seemed to be all the more awry and wild. Watson eyed Holmes warily, suddenly frightened by this aspect of Holmes. True, he had seen it before, while they were working on a case and Sherlock discovered something truly profound - but never over a woman, let alone a young one.

"Sixteen, Watson! _Sixteen!_" Sherlock began pacing again, hands running frantically through his hair. "So intelligent at such a young age - and a _female_! I never thought I'd see the day when such a thing occurred."

"Holmes," Watson said, "what has gotten _into_ you?"

"Jane Heathrow, that's what!" Sherlock pivoted on Watson again and grabbed him by the shoulders, eyes even wider than before. "You didn't read what I read - she's a genius, considering that she is so young and is female. It's startling!"

Watson shrugged out of Sherlock's grasp and raised an eyebrow. "She certainly seems much more intelligent than the average female."

"Than the average _individual_, Watson!" Sherlock made his way over to the window that allowed one to see inside his study and gently lifted one of the slats in an attempt to peek at Jane. She sat still, her eyes wandering, taking everything in.

Joining Sherlock, Watson stated with slight awe, "She looks at things like you do, Holmes."

"Indeed," Sherlock murmured, tearing himself away from the window. He began to restlessly pace again, biting away at his thumbnail.

"Holmes." Watson did not approach the man, but began to walk a wide circumference around the sleuth. "I sense that there's something more."

Sherlock's head snapped up, his eyes flickering. "More? There is nothing more, Watson."

"I've been your companion long enough to know that you are keeping things from me again."

"Never." Sherlock paced away, mind racing. "She is merely an intelligent, young female with a surprisingly accelerated maturity. Where could she possible come from? Surely not here in London. London does not breed such an individual."

"I am still unconvinced, Holmes," Watson said, still making his wide circumference around the detective. "It takes more than intelligence to impress you." Watson frowned and stopped in his stride abruptly. "Why the devil did you tell Miss Heathrow to call you by your first name?"

Sherlock failed to respond. Suddenly, he stiffened, his back snapping up ramrod straight, eyes wider than ever. "Do you hear it?"

Brow furrowing, Watson listened hard and finally heard something. "It sounds like - "

" - my violin." Sherlock darted from the room, nearly tearing the door off its hinges.

Jane, startled, nearly stumbled over a pile of Sherlock's books. In her hands, she held his precious violin, along with the bow that accompanied it. Watson, arriving upon the scene, was surprised more by Sherlock's lack of reaction than by the fact that Jane held the violin. Standing there, Sherlock seemed frozen, immovable, eyes flitting between Jane's face and her hands. His gaze traveled down her arm and to her hand, where her slender fingers held his bow and violin deliberately. She held it as though it were made of glass, handling it with an expertise that Sherlock had never seen before, aside from his own grasp. Something about the idea of her holding his violin sent a pleasurable shiver down his spine.

"I'm sorry," Jane finally said, though she did not set the violin down. "I couldn't help myself. Violins are such beautiful instruments." She ran her fingers gently along the body of the violin. Sherlock, still rooted to the spot, shivered again, wondering what such a caress would feel like against his own body. He shook the thought from his mind.

"Indeed they are," he managed to say, his voice unnaturally tense. "Do you play?"

"Some." Jane adjusted the violin in her hands in a way better to grasp it. "I am accustomed, rather, to the piano, the sole instrument that I play exceedingly well."

"You are gifted," Sherlock stated.

"So I have been told." Jane met Sherlock's gaze with the smallest of nervous smiles.

Watson watched the exchange from behind Sherlock, trying his best to keep from frowning and knitting his brows together. He sensed that some change had overcome his companion, and it was not a change that Watson had ever seen before - on Sherlock, at least. The three stood in silence, Sherlock and Jane's gazes locked, Watson's darting between the two. For Watson, the silence was oppresive. He could feel the electricity between their gazes; he saw the way both Sherlock and Jane seemed to be reading each other. It unnerved Watson far more than anything he had ever experienced.

The nanny was the one to break the silence. She came into the room with a large platter in her hands, drawing all gazes sharply to her. She cast a glance between the three of them, a puzzled expression creeping into her eyes.

"I have brought the tea," she said, doing her best to tear her gaze away from Jane. She walked over and set it on the table in what little space was there and sent Watson a questioning glance. He shrugged.

"Thank you, nanny," Sherlock said, recovering himself. He pulled up the chair Jane had been sitting in earlier and gestured at it. "Please, take a seat, Miss Heathrow."

Accepting his offer, Jane said, "I suppose 'Jane' wouldn't be so much a burden."

A light smirk touched the corner of Sherlock's lips. "I suppose not." He settled down in a chair directly across from Jane and suddenly remembered Watson's presence. "Watson! Come and sit."

Baffled, Watson complied and pulled up a chair between the two so he could see them both clearly. Sherlock poured the tea, asked if Jane wanted any sugar or cream - (both, actually) - and handed it to her with the utmost care. She took it gratefully, presenting him with a smile that may have sent his face into a flush, had not it been for Sherlock's strong restraint upon himself. He poured himself some tea but did not for Watson, who regarded Holmes coolly.

"No tea for me, then?" he asked.

"You can serve your own tea, Watson. You've done it before." Sherlock didn't so much as even glance in Watson's direction. He waited a moment for Jane to finish sipping at her tea before addressing her. "Jane." Her name rolled off his tongue fluidly, tasting so sweet to him. "What brings you to London?"

Setting her cup and saucer aside, Jane licked the spoon clean and twirled it in her fingers by impulse as she answered. "I came here to study."

"Study?" Watson looked at her curiously. "You said you were not a student."

"I believe Sherlock said that," Jane pointed out, directing her gaze at Watson. "But, he is right in that regard. I am not a student."

"Symbols." Sherlock's voice drew both of their attention. "You came to London to study symbols."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Symbols have always intrigued me," Jane said, the spoon twirling faster between her fingers. "That is not to say that I am any good at recognizing them. I merely have tried to acquaint myself with them."

"I say otherwise." Sherlock sniffed and reached out to pick up one of Jane's notebooks. She reached out immediately, faster than one would have expected. Their hands briefly touched, until Jane's fingers slowly uncurled from the notebook and relinquished it. "I promise I won't ruin it," Sherlock said, flipping to the first page.

"May I?" Watson asked, gesturing to one of the notebooks. Jane nodded and cast her glance from one man to the other as they began to skim the pages. Watson's eyes sparked astonishment as he scanned the page. Sherlock, however, reflected excitement once more, flipping the pages earnestly, his eyes taking in all he saw.

"You are a genius!" Sherlock declared, snapping the notebook shut abruptly. Jane flinched from the noise and stopped rolling the spoon between her hands, her gaze dropping to her feet.

"You give me too much credit," Jane murmured quietly.

"Your insights are deeply profound," Sherlock said, setting the notebook aside. "Surely one may be able to read about symbols, but to make connections as strong as you have is not a feat a non-genius would be able to accomplish. Comparing the symbolism of color to modern society in the form of art and textiles is unbelievable!"

Jane shifted in her seat and brought her gaze up to Sherlock's face, a modest grin twitching the corner of her lips. "You flatter someone unfit to be flattered, Sherlock. What you have pointed out is not something profound. It is actually quite obvious."

"And _that_ is the mark of a true genius!" Sherlock nearly leapt to his feet in excitement. "A genius is the only individual who would notice something profound and say it is 'quite obvious'. It - "

"She is an artist."

Watson's voice stopped Sherlock in his ramble and caught his attention. Poring over another notebook, Watson slowly looked up at Sherlock. "Quite the artist, if I must say so myself."

Jane shook her head. "You, too, Dr. Watson, give me much credit for what little talent I possess."

Jane's modesty and humble demeanor was staggering to Holmes. He had never come across a young individual who did not boast about their talents and feats. _Truly_, he thought, _this is one intriguing woman._

"Look at this, Holmes." Watson handed the notebook - sketchbook - to Holmes, who immediately scanned the page. "You do have talent," Watson addressed Jane. "You should be proud."

"One cannot be proud in one's failures," Jane said, her gaze darting back to Sherlock.

"Watson is right," Sherlock said, almost breathlessly. "Such talent is not given to just any one individual." He bit his lip, still taking in the beauty of her art. "The perspective here is fantastic, even if I am one who does not show much interest in art."

"Though it is pleasing to find two gentlemen who bestow such heavenly praise upon me, I do wish you would not." Jane shook her head and plucked the sketchbook from Sherlock's grasp. "I am not one to favor compliments." Jane looked around for a clock and found one sitting askew on what seemed to be desk. "I think it would be best if I leave."

"Oh, please don't!" Sherlock was on his feet in an instant. "Our conversation is intriguing."

Before Jane could say anything, Watson cut in. "Miss Heathrow," he asked, "where are your parents?"

"My parents?" Jane seemed surprised by his question. "They reside up north."

"North? Why are you so far from home?"

"London is more of a home than what they have to offer," Jane said, resentment creeping into her voice slightly. "They fuss over my older sisters instead, since they have all been married since the age of fourteen. I suppose one could consider me the runt of the litter. They expect nothing from me, and thus I had the opportunity to come here without the burden of them to carry."

"You live alone!" Sherlock's surprise was evident in his widened gaze.

"Yes." Jane, already on her feet, began to collect her notebooks. "It is dangerous, I know. That is why I have taken the necessary precaution of adorning myself with masculine attire. I do my best to keep from prying eyes, especially those of vulgar men."

Sherlock's mouth had dried considerably as he watched Jane gather her things. He wanted to stop her, to keep her from leaving. He couldn't even _stomach_ the thought of her living alone with so much evil about the town. He tried to speak but failed, his mind racing in search of words. Watson stood to his feet and went over to grab Jane's coat and hat.

"Shall I hail a landau*?" Watson asked, handing her the coat.

"There's no need," Jane said. "I shall hail a hansom** when I am on the street. I thank you for the offer, however."

"_Watson!_" Sherlock's sharp exclamation drew both Watson and Jane's attention. Sherlock made for the other room again. "Watson, a word. Jane, please excuse us for a moment."

Slipping into the next room and shutting the door, Sherlock grabbed Watson by the shoulders and nearly shook him to death due to his excitement. "I have the most _brilliant_ idea, Watson."

"_All_ your ideas are brilliant." The sarcasm was evident in Watson's voice as he tried to slip from Sherlock's death grip.

"Let's have Jane board with us!" Sherlock's eyes were unnaturally wide.

"Board with us!"

"Yes! She shouldn't be living all alone. She could very well be attacked." Sherlock's hands tightened on Watson's shoulders. "And think about it, Watson. With her extensive knowledge on symbols and symbolism, she could prove to be a valuable ally when solving cases! Just think of it!"

"You solve cases just fine by yourself," Watson pointed out. "And why the devil would she want to board with _you_? You are disgusting and selfish and - "

"Please, Watson. Though I just _enjoy_ your ranted descriptions about me, I am in no mood to listen." Sherlock dropped his hands from Watson's shoulders. "By boarding with us, we can provide her shelter and she, in turn, can delve out her knowledge when necessary. It's an ingenius strategy, Watson. Absolutely brilliant."

"I won't be boarding with you for much longer, Holmes." Watson frowned. "Mary and I will be moving into our new home in less than a few weeks."

Sherlock didn't even hear Watson. He stepped out of the room and found Jane with notebooks in hand, her coat and hat about her. Struggling to reign in his excitement and anticipation as much as possible, Sherlock approached Jane with a faint smile on his face, his calculating eyes warm and amiable for once in his lifetime.

"Jane," Sherlock began, fidgeting ever so minutely, "Watson and I - "

At this, Watson stepped back in astonishment, eyes widening, head shaking back and forth. "I never - "

" - have come to the conclusion that an offer should be made," Sherlock finished.

"An offer?" Jane shifted the books in her arms awkwardly.

"Yes. We - " Watson elbowed Sherlock in the ribs. " - that is to say, _I_, would like to make the offer of a place of residence."

"I already have my own accomodations."

"Yes, but I am proposing that you board here, with us." Sherlock did his best to keep from fidgeting like a young schoolboy. "All your needs would be taken care of, and you would no longer have to be so concerned about being attacked from being alone. I can tolerate quite a few things - "

"Not true!" Watson exclaimed.

" - to some extent," Sherlock amended, "and I most certainly would enjoy your company."

Jane pursed her lips and glanced between Watson and Sherlock. "How did you come about this offer? What purpose do I have for you? Surely not housekeeping."

"No, no, please don't misinterpret my meaning." Sherlock took another step forward, struggling to keep from breaking down in exasperation. "You, with such a profoundly wide expanse of symbolic knowledge and deep intelligence, would be of the utmost help to me and my companion here."

"Mostly him," Watson warned, wondering whether or not Jane would actually _consider_ the offer.

Biting her lip in a manner startlingly similar to Sherlock, Jane thought long and hard. Finally, she regarded Sherlock with a solemn gaze, though she said not a word for the longest time. Under her gaze, Sherlock felt nearly naked, an idea that did not repulse him as much as it could have.

"I accept your offer, Sherlock," Jane said. "However, I come on only one condition." Her voice seemed to hold a grave undertone.

"Anything," Sherlock said.

"Within reason!" Watson added, startled by Jane's acceptance.

"Provide me with a piano." Jane's eyes were unreadable. "Provide me with a piano and I will board with you."

"Certainly! Of course!" Sherlock could no longer contain his excitement. A lopsided, boyish grin spread across his face. "When can I expect your arrival? Shall I send someone to aid you in your packing and transportation of your things?"

"That won't be necessary, I assure you, Sherlock," Jane said. "I have very little. I do, however, hope that I do not have to pay rent. I can hardly pay rent to my current landlord."

"Never - not one pound." Sherlock shook his head.

Watson, sensing that Jane was just about ready to leave, took up his gentlemanly duties and opened the door for her. She smiled at him gratefully and cast one last glance over her shoulder at Sherlock.

"You can expect me in two days."

And she was gone.

Watson shut the door behind her and faced Sherlock sharply. "What the devil have you done, Holmes!"

Sherlock, however, was not listening. He turned away from Watson and the door, walking briskly about his room, rummaging through things without actually picking anything up.

"Watson, just _think_ of it!" Sherlock repeated, ecstatic. "This could, perhaps, be one of the best decisions of my life, and - oh!" He looked around his room frantically. "She arrives in two days, Watson! We must accomodate her needs!"

"No, _you_ must accomodate her needs," Watson said. "I already accomodate for Mary, as it is." He picked up his hat and cane, and he pulled on his coat. "I only suggest that you let her use the room behind you."

Sherlock turned and looked at the room he had been in only momemts earlier with Watson. He did not hear the door open and shut. "But, Watson," he cried, pivoting around, "you must help - Watson?" He found himself alone. "Watson?" He shook his head. "No matter."

And he set about tidying up what would be Jane's new place of residence.

* * *

**A/N:** * A four-wheeled, convertible carriage popular in England in the mid 1700s to early 1800s.

** A horse-drawn carriage - also referred to as a type of cab - designed in the early 1800s. One of the more common cabs in England.


	3. Chapter 3

"Watson, where are you going?"

Shrugging into his coat, Watson regarded Holmes coldly. "You're the infamous detective - you already know."

Sherlock stared at Watson for a brief moment, eyes flickering slightly. "Off to see Mary, I presume."

"Presume! Listen to yourself, Holmes!" Watson shook his head fiercely and grabbed his hat off the table. "Presume, ha! Holmes you never 'presume' - you _know_."

"You can't leave just yet!" Sherlock began to succumb to his pacing again, messing with his wild hair in an attempt to tame it. "Jane hasn't arrived yet! We must wait for her!"

"We! _You_ were the one who invited her! _You_ must wait." Watson opened the door to leave. "Mary waits for me, and you are doing no good by stalling me. The best of luck to you."

"Luck?" Sherlock winced as the door slammed shut in Watson's wake. "Watson knows there is no luck to things."

As Watson made his way to the street, he came across Jane. Catching sight of him, Jane offered a weak smile and greeted, "Good day to you, Dr. Watson. Off to some pressing engagement, I presume?"

"Presume," Watson muttered under his breath, shaking his head to himself. "Yes. I have someone to meet. A good day to you, Miss Heathrow."

"Please, it's Jane." Jane smiled at him again and continued up the stairs, leaving Watson alone. He gazed after her for a moment before descending the rest of the stairs.

"An odd woman," he said to himself, and he waved down a hansom as quickly as he could, realizing he would be late.

When the expected knock came on Sherlock's door, Holmes tripped over his own feet, startled. Picking himself up from the floor as quickly as he could, he stopped the nanny in her tracks with, "I shall answer," and approached the door, brushing imaginary dust from his clothes. As to why, he knew not. He found his breath slightly labored, and his palms had grown cold and damp. He wiped them on the front of his pants. Taking in a deep breath, he opened the door.

Jane looked up at him sharply and smiled hesitantly, nervously. She held in her hands a surprisingly small satchel. Setting it at her feet, she extended her hand for a handshake. "Good day, Sherlock."

Sherlock, on impulse, grabbed her hand delicately and pressed the back of it to his lips in a small, chaste kiss. His heart fluttered lightly. "Good day to you, too, Jane."

A slight flush crept up Jane's neck and into her cheeks. She drew her hand away and tugged at the bottom of her coat. "I expected a handshake, but I suppose that'll suffice."

They stood there in awkward silence. A thought struck Holmes, and he blurted, "Oh, please, come inside."

Stepping over the threshold, Jane said, "I have some things still below. If I could - "

"I shall send someone to fetch them," Sherlock immediately said. He made for the door, but Jane's hand stayed him. The light pressure against his chest from her touch kept him rooted to the spot.

"There's no need." Jane regarded him with a level gaze. "I shall fetch them myself."

"Jane, it would be of no trouble for - "

"Let it be, Mr. Holmes."

The use of his name formally made Sherlock quiet. He sensed that he would not win the conversation. He nodded his head, unable to speak. Jane dropped her hand from his chest.

"Thank you." She set her satchel down at her feet again and stepped out of the room.

In the few agonizing minutes that she was gone, Sherlock still stood in the same spot, a statue made of flesh. He took a few deep breaths, trying to collect his wits about him and keep a level head. For once in his lifetime, he felt confused - at least to some extent. He passed a hand over his face and ran both hands through his hair, patting his head in another vain attempt to tame his chaotic hairstyle. Jane was back moments later.

_Light footsteps_, Sherlock noted as Jane appeared at the head of the stairs.

The bag she now carried in her arms was considerably large satchel. Upon seeing it, Holmes leapt forward and took it from her hands. Jane smiled at him gratefully - nervously, again - and shut the door gently behind her. Sherlock, with the satchel weighing heavy in his arms, merely stared at her. Jane moistened her lips.

"Where shall I be staying?" she asked, reaching down to pick up the smaller satchel.

"Oh, yes. Over here."

Sherlock led Jane to the room next to his and opened the door with a push of his foot. It swung open silently on lubricated hinges. Sherlock stepped aside to allow Jane to enter the room and followed after her. As he set down the large satchel in the middle of the room, he felt the sudden urge to speak.

"It's bland," he said, referring to the room, "but I hope it shall suffice to your needs."

"Yes, I think it shall," Jane said, running her right hand over the piano that Holmes had pushed into the corner. She caressed the top of the piano as though it were a delicate object, her fingers lingering on the wood before she recovered herself and turned to face Sherlock. "I appreciate all that you have done, Sherlock. If there is any way to properly express my gratitude, then - "

"A simple 'Thank You' shall work just fine." Sherlock swallowed thickly and managed a lopsided grin.

Jane returned the smile, sending shivers down Sherlock's spine. "Thank you."

"You are most welcome."

Jane turned from Holmes and began to walk around the room, setting her satchel on the small bed tucked in the other corner. The nanny had been considerate enough to pull aside the curtains from across the window. Hazy light - whatever sunlight that passed through the dense cloud and fog of the early morning - pushed through the glass and tumbled to the floor. Jane pressed her fingers to the glass momentarily, her breath fogging it ever so slightly. To Holmes, she seemed pensive, almost nostalgic. With a fluttering sigh of what Sherlock sensed was relief, she closed her eyes and stepped away from the window. When she opened her eyes, a small flame of contentment, laced with nervousness, danced in her pupils.

Realizing that he was staring again, Sherlock looked away and made to leave. A thought crossed his mind, however, and he stopped underneath the doorframe.

"Is that all you brought?" he asked, gesturing to the two satchels; Jane nodded. "What is in the one I carried?"

"My books and notes."

"And your clothing?"

"In the small satchel."

"That is all?"

"I never said I came to London as a wealthy woman," Jane said pointedly, pulling off her coat. She tossed it onto the bed, along with her hat. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to unpack."

"Yes, yes. Of course." Sherlock bowed out of the room, allowing the door to click shut softly behind him. "She brought so little," he murmured to himself, circling his own room restlessly. As he walked, he picked up his violin and bow deftly from one of the chairs.

Sitting down in a chair closer to the window that connected his room to Jane's, Sherlock plucked away at the strings of the violin, thoughts racing. He was appalled by how little Jane seemed to have, aside from her books. He could only imagine a few more pairs of pants and shirts in the bag she had brought. Could she have a dress tucked away in the same satchel, or even _one_ article of feminine clothing? Though dressed in masculine attire, she did not seem to be of high class, though the clothing was nice. Perhaps she was of high middle-class.

It was these things that Sherlock pondered as he sat in his chair. He eventually transitioned into playing snippets of music on his violin, chin propped on the chin rest of the instrument. The bow, an extension of his arm rather than just an object in his hand, slid through the air gracefully, beautifully, as his thoughts continued to click away as questions and assumptions. At one point, a sprightly, flamboyant tune came from the violin, Holmes's arm darting back and forth rapidly in the event that such a piece was to be played that way.

An hour later, the door connecting the two rooms opened. Holmes cut off the music abruptly and was on his feet in an instant, violin and bow hanging at his side. Jane emerged slowly, tentatively, as though afraid that she was intruding. Long, brown, curly hair cascaded down her shoulders and her back. She wore only pants that had been rolled up to her knees and an unruly white, long-sleeve shirt, cuffs undone and rolled up to her elbow lazily.

"Oh, I hope I did not interrupt you," she said quietly.

"No, I assure you." Sherlock loosened his grip on his violin, not at all remembering when he had gripped it so tight. Moistening his lips, he asked, "Are you hungry? Shall I call the nanny?"

"I am fine," Jane answered. "No need to bother the nanny." She took a seat near to Holmes, one hand running through her hair briefly. The tension and nervousness that Sherlock had noticed earlier had diminished, though they were still present.

Sherlock sat back down, violin and bow lying across his lap. Silence descended around the two like a stifling blanket. Jane fiddled with the bottom of her pants. Holmes did his best to keep from staring too long at Jane, in an effort to keep her from becoming uncomfortable. He, himself, felt awkward. A part of him wished Watson was there, just because Watson also seemed to be able to demolish such awkward silences and keep everyone entertained - a woman, at least.

"Please," Jane began quietly, looking up at Sherlock, "continue playing. I shall go back into my room if you wish.

"Oh, no, no. Stay, if you'd like." Sherlock swallowed thickly and picked up his violin again. The bow skittered across the strings of the violin. Holmes shook his head and did his best to calm his erratic nerves.

"My presence makes you nervous," Jane stated, chin propped up on her hand.

Sherlock stared at her for a moment, sensing that feeling of being exposed again. He finally nodded his head slowly. "Perhaps," he said, "perhaps not. I have slept very little in the past few da - week." He picked up his bow again.

He began to play, still aware of Jane's eyes on him. He felt himself, however, slipping into the lull of the music, and he allowed the bow to play whatever his mind commanded it to. The music was sweet, transitioning from lullaby's to serenades without Sherlock's conscious awareness. He started to play the first movement of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, a beautiful but slightly melancholy piece.

The bow finally stopped, and Sherlock opened his eyes slowly, gaze darting over to Jane. He found her sprawled out on the chair, eyes closed, feet hanging over the armrest. His eyes were immediately drawn to the curve of her calf. His gaze traveled down her leg to the end of her feet. He was startled to see them wrapped lightly in bandages.

_What happened to her feet?_ he thought, looking at her face. It looked so serene, so peaceful, so..._beautiful_. Her brown locks of hair framed her cheek, lying across her chest. In this state, Holmes truly saw Jane's age, and, perhaps, her minute fragility. He wanted to reach out and touch her face, or even run his fingers lightly down her bare leg. He bit his lip, so unaccustomed to having such thoughts and impulses.

Jane's eyes fluttered open, and she propped herself up on her elbows. "Tired?" she asked, glancing at his bow arm.

"No," Sherlock murmured. However, he set the violin aside and turned his chair to face Jane better. Jane shifted in her seat, sitting up straighter, though her legs still hung freely over the armrest. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and regarded Holmes with a warm gaze. The hair on Sherlock's arms prickled.

"So, tell me," Jane began in soft tones, "who was it that Dr. Watson was so eager to see? A woman, no less?"

"His fiancé, Mary," Sherlock answered.

Jane was silent. Then, "This bothers you."

_So perceptive!_ Sherlock propped his head in his right hand. "Yes."

Another small silence.

"Dr. Watson has been your companion for nearly a year, I am assuming. Being a bachelor yourself, you do not want Watson to be tied down. You enjoy the adventures the two of you embark on, and you are afraid you will lose that once he is married." Jane's eyes bored deeply into Sherlock's. "I see that anger boils in you, though it is slight. You are angry that a woman has taken Watson away from you. He is like a brother to you, a part of you that you cannot bear to lose." Jane's eyes fluttered abruptly, and she shook her head as though she were just waking from a daze. "Oh, I am sorry - I was rambling."

Sherlock swallowed thickly. "You are correct, though. I...do not want to lose Watson. He has been the only companion I have ever truly had, the only one I've been able to trust wholeheartedly."

"You are fortunate," Jane said, "to have a companion such as Dr. Watson. I have never had such a companion. And now...well, I am not exactly accompanied by anyone, am I?" Jane chuckled lightly, but Holmes quickly noticed the regretful note in her voice. "No such luck," Jane continued, "for me to be able to entertain any one's attention for more than a few days."

"There are very few companions like Watson in the world," Sherlock said quietly. "To find someone like him is to find an investment of a lifetime."

Jane gave Sherlock a small smile and tapped her fingers on the armrest in quick succession. "Well, that is true enough." She tapped her fingers again and reached out, her fingers curling around a few papers on the table near them. "What," she asked, "are these about?"

Sherlock smiled. "Well..."

When Watson came home two hours later, he found Sherlock and Jane talking avidly, excitedly. He stood in the doorway and watched them as they darted around the room, Sherlock picking up stacks of papers, Jane scribbling things down. They lapsed into pensive thought, and Sherlock plucked at his violin as his thoughts raced. Both of them had their hair in a mess, flurried by their hard thinking. Holmes stopped in mid-melody and exclaimed some word quite loudly, to which Jane cried, "Of course!", and wrote some more in hurried script.

"What the devil is going on in here!" Watson exclaimed.

Sherlock and Jane looked up sharply, looking at Watson with the same wide-eyed stare. Sherlock straightened and attempted to explain, but Watson cut him off and walked further into the room, the door shutting loudly behind him.

"Look at the two of you!" Watson pointed at them sharply. "You look like slobs!"

Sherlock and Jane threw a glance at each other. Hair awry, eyes wild, the arm-sleeves of their shirts unevenly folded, one rolling down to the wrist, the other beginning to unfurl lopsidedly. Jane's shirt was untucked on her left side, and Sherlock's shirt, as always, was rumpled, have in his pants, the other half not. Holmes turned back to Watson.

"We were simply in the midst of a discussion," he explained, setting his violin down. "How was your time with Mary?"

"Fine." Watson answered sharply, curtly. He doffed his hat and looked at Jane. "Miss Heathrow, why are you in such a state?"

Looking down at herself for a brief moment, Jane answered timidly, "This is how I often am, Dr. Watson. As Sherlock said, we were in the midst of a deep, profound conversation."

Watson shook his head. "You are safe here from the outside world, Miss Heathrow, though I am not sure that it is the outside world you should be so concerned about." He shot Holmes a lethal glare. "I do not see the use of you wearing male attire any longer."

Jane plucked at her shoulder, realized it was untucked, and stuffed the exposed shirt back into the waist of her pants in a manner unlike a female. "I own no feminine clothing," she told Watson as she worked on rolling up the unrolled arm sleeve. "And, I prefer the male attire. It is so much more unrestrained and not at all confining like female attire."

"I can't _imagine_ what you would look like otherwise," Sherlock piped up, hands clasped behind his back. He performed a small, mock bow in her direction. "I doubt female attire would bode well with you."

At this, both Holmes and Jane spluttered into laughter, Jane especially so. Watson rolled his eyes and planted his hat back on his head, heading once more for the door so he could adjourn to his room. He looked back over his shoulder at Jane.

"I can't _believe_ you would _enjoy_ this man's company!" Watson cried, jabbing an accusing finger in Sherlock's direction. The laughter died, and a hurt expression - hidden well - crept into Sherlock's eyes.

Jane frowned and curled her hands together tightly. Picking up the notebook she had been writing in, she said, "I suppose I should go now," and hurried into her room, head bowed. Sherlock watched her go with a forlorn gaze. When the door shut behind her, he turned to Watson sharply.

"Look what you've done, Watson!" Sherlock marched over to Watson, a scowl on his face.

"No, look what _you've_ done!" Watson's voice rose a notch. "This is ridiculous, Holmes! You've spent only a few hours with this woman, and already you've influenced her to be just as bad as you!"

"I have done no such thing!" Sherlock's tone was harsh. "She was like that all on her own!"

Watson, flabbergasted, shook his head and yanked open the door. "I wish you keep a tighter reign on yourself and clean up your act!" he yelled. "Good day!"

Sherlock winced as Watson slammed the door loudly. Sighing, he rubbed his face wearily with his right hand and ran it through his hair, feeling utterly weary. His eyes grew forlorn again as he stared at the door, and he turned to look at the door of Jane's room, his eyes just as gloomy. The door, to his surprise, opened, and Jane stepped halfway out, her eyes seeking Sherlock's.

"I hope I haven't come between you and Dr. Watson," she said quietly. "I am sorry."

"It wasn't your fault, Jane," Sherlock said quickly. "Watson and I are like this now and again."

Jane bit her lip and nodded hesitantly before slipping back into her room, leaving Sherlock alone and in silence.


	4. Chapter 4

Watson hadn't seen Holmes in a week. He'd been too busy with his fiancé, Mary, to even bother to stop in, even when he heard something crash or clatter. In less than three weeks, Watson would be moving out into his new home with Mary. Hurrying and bustling, he went about packing and gathering up his things, deciding on which to leave and which to keep. When he finally had a break, he went to Sherlock's door. Watson felt very weary and upset, even a little regretful, for leaving Holmes after having such a harsh conversation. He knew he had hurt Holmes, and, in doing so, had hurt a little of himself. He knocked on the door, announcing his presence, and pushed it open, letting it shut behind him.

The entire room was dark, aside from a few candles lit here and there. Watson took off his hat and placed it on one of the chairs, peering around for his eccentric companion.

"Holmes?" he asked aloud, taking a few steps forward.

"Watson?"

Sherlock emerged from one of the corners, his face shrouded by the shadows and lack of sleep, from what little Watson could see. Watson shook his head and made his way to one of the window.

"Not this again, Holmes," Watson said, grabbing at one of the curtains.

"No, Watson, be careful!"

Watson pulled aside the curtains hard. Sherlock cried out, followed by another feminine cry. Sherlock, hands held up in front of his face, tripped over a pile of books and landed with a thud on the floor, kicking up a small cloud of dust. Watson shook his head.

"Where is Miss Heathrow?" he asked, noting that her room door was open.

"I told you to address me as Jane," a voice said from a place near the same corner Holmes had stepped away from. Hands in front of her face in an attempt to block out the excess amount of morning light, Jane blinked rapidly and went over to Sherlock.

"Surely Holmes did not submit you to this kind of torture," Watson exclaimed, noticing, too, that there was no light in Jane's room. "Holmes, I cannot - "

"Oh, quiet," Jane snapped, eyes flashing for a brief moment as she helped Holmes to his feet. "I am accustomed to this. It is a good way to think and collect one's thoughts."

"Thank you," Sherlock murmured, finally on his feet again. He looked at Watson with a peculiar expression. "What made you finally show up?" he asked, his eyes unable to meet Watson's.

"I've been busy for the past week - "

"With Mary, yes." The scorn and slight anger in Sherlock's voice was evident, though he tried to mask it. "I thought you had..._abandoned_ me after our little argument."

Lips settling into a thin, firm line, Watson retorted, "Perhaps, perhaps not."

Jane shifted away from both Holmes and Watson uneasily, running a hand through her unruly, lazily kempt hair. Her eyes were wide, as though permanently propped open to ward off sleep. Again, she wore an un-tucked shirt and rolled up pants, her suspenders twisted oddly on her shoulders. Standing next to Holmes, Watson noticed immediately the striking similarities between the two. Though Sherlock's gaze was clouded with hurt and anger, he had the same wide-eyed gaze as Jane, as well as the wild hair. Watson's brow furrowed in puzzlement. The two almost looked as one. It was a frightening aspect.

"Have you slept at all?" Watson asked, not exactly to whom he was referring to.

"No," Jane and Sherlock answered in unison. Sherlock ran a hand over his face and rubbed his eyes, still wincing from the bright light.

"No!" Watson turned to Jane. "Why not?"

"I suffer from insomnia," Jane stated, scratching her jaw as though it had stubble, "especially when I know I am close to some revelation in regards to my studies."

Watson's gaze darted between Jane and Holmes. Jane plopped herself down onto one of the larger, couch-like chairs and kicked her legs up onto the seat, stretched out lazily before her. Sherlock, still avoiding Watson's gaze, picked up his violin from the corner of the room and made his way to the darkest corner possible, right near Jane. Jane made room for him. When Holmes sat down, she propped her feet up onto his leg, her eyes closed. Holmes, surprised, glanced down at her still-bandaged feet, his eyes traveling up her bare leg until her pants kept him from seeing another above her knee. Moistening his lips, heart fluttering lightly, he plucked away at his violin, focusing on some imaginary point in space between worlds, brow creasing.

Watson made a slow circumference of the room, noticing that the piles of papers had grown larger, that the experiments Holmes worked on had grown in size. He saw a few of Jane's notebooks scattered about the place, sketches of odd symbols and splashes of color popping out from the pages. Jane's bed was still made-up, her small satchel tossed into one corner of the room.

"Have you eaten anything?" Watson asked, not exactly sure who he was addressing again.

"Not much," Jane answered, eyes still closed. Sherlock blinked indifferently.

Making another circumference around the room, Watson blurted abruptly, "By Jove, Holmes, have you _changed_ at all?"

Sherlock stopped playing the violin, and he fixed Watson with his wide-eyed glare. "Once."

Watson took a step back, still always staggered by Sherlock's hygiene, and gestured to Jane. "And she?"

"Once," Jane supplied, opening her eyes in a manner close to Sherlock's. Upon seeing Watson's appalled and disgusted look, she said, "What? We haven't been _doing_ anything that would require a change of clothes."

Mouth gaping, Watson cried, "You two disgust me!"

"How could you say that to lady!" Had not Jane's feet been propped up on Sherlock's legs, he would have leapt to his feet in protest.

"A lady?" Watson scoffed. "_She_ is no lady!"

"And you think Mary is?" Holmes's brow creased deeply.

Watson, damn near close to fuming, pressed his lips together firmly and nodded his head curtly, his eyebrows knitting together tightly in a scowl. Jane passed a hand over her face and sighed, drawing both Sherlock's and Watson's attention. Without looking at either of them, she opened her mouth to speak, her voice sounding nearly three times her age.

"If I had known I would cause so much trouble," she stated quietly, "I would not have accepted the offer of a place of residence."

"You have nothing to do with this," Watson assured, fixing his gaze hard on Sherlock. "This is merely a dispute between Holmes and I."

"And I," Jane pointed out, her eyes fluttering close, "am only aggravating the situation."

"No, no, you are not." Sherlock placed a tentative hand on Jane's shin. She opened her eyes and looked at him. "I assure you."

Jane offered Sherlock a weak smile and turned her gaze to Watson. She inhaled deeply, staring intently at his face. It made Watson's skin crawl. Only Sherlock had ever made him feel so exposed, and, yet, here was another who produced a similar effect.

"You two need to talk this through," Jane suggested, her eyes never leaving Watson's face. "Dr. Watson, you are...frustrated by Sherlock's inability to accept your soon-to-be marriage with Mary. What are you afraid of? When one marries, one becomes a part of the family. If Mary cannot come to like Sherlock, who is like a brother to you, how can you marry her? Truly? There is no real difficult decision to be made here. You need only to find common ground between yourself, Mary, and Sherlock." She inhaled deeply again, nostrils flaring ever so slightly. "Sherlock is afraid he shall lose you, Dr. Watson. And how could you abandon him, when he has no one else he can trust wholeheartedly? Such things must be taken into consideration before any final decisions and commitments can be made."

As she lapsed back into silence, the room felt oppressive by the gravity of her words. Sherlock fidgeted with his violin, his fingers sliding on the violin strings. Watson was astounded by the girl's perception, a perception very much attuned like Holmes's. He looked at Holmes, trying to read the man. Sherlock, sensing his gaze, met Watson's gaze. He exhaled heavily and nodded his head.

"She is right," he said.

Watson swallowed thickly and glanced at Jane, who had closed her eyes. She reached out and took Sherlock's violin from his hand, bow along with it. She plucked out a few melodies and eventually settled into a melancholy piece, as though reflecting the mood that had drifted into the room. Sherlock stared at her for the longest time, enjoying the way she handled his violin. Earlier, he had seen her for the first time on the piano, had heard the beautiful music she had elicited from the ivory keys. Just as he seemed to slip into a trance when playing his violin, she, too, did the same, her fingers flying over the keys like sinewy, sensual spider legs. Sherlock felt his heart palpitate momentarily.

Jane transitioned into a happier song, one that began to dispel the sense of disappointment and depression from the air. Watson felt himself relaxing. His gaze settled on Sherlock's face. He watched Holmes with interest, following Holmes's gaze to Jane. Glancing back and forth between the two, Watson was suddenly overcome with the feeling that Sherlock was fighting against himself whenever he looked at Jane. Perplexed, he studied Holmes longer, hoping to understand whatever was going on in the infamous sleuth's mind. He realized that Sherlock still had his hand on Jane's leg. Staring at it, Watson noticed as Holmes's hand slowly relaxed against Jane's skin until he had comfortably placed his hand on her. He touched her in a way unlike Watson had ever seen him before.

_Perhaps_, Watson thought, gaze drawn back up to Sherlock's enrapt face, _perhaps Miss Heathrow is a good thing for Holmes. Perhaps._

The last note of Jane's piece hung in the air, and Watson shifted away from the couch. Picking up his hat, he said quietly, "I shall be back later."

"Indeed," Sherlock muttered, taking the violin gently from Jane's hands. Watson nodded curtly, cast one more glance over his shoulder at the two, and hurried from the room.

Holmes wasn't sure when he had dozed off. He woke up bleary-eyed, feeling uncharacteristically warm. Looking down, he was startled to find Jane curled up against him, her head just under his chin. Sherlock stiffened, feeling something he had never felt before in his chest. He attempted to slip away from Jane, but he found himself rooted to the spot by Lord-knows-what. He shifted, and Jane moved with him, murmuring quietly in her sleep, her lips brushing his chin, whisper-soft. Sherlock inhaled sharply, shivering from the contact. Jane shifted against him again, her legs hooking over his awkwardly. Another shiver shot up and down his spine, not at all unpleasant. He had no clue as to what to do.

Gazing down at Jane's serene face, however, he did not feel the urge to get up from the couch. He found himself shifting closer to Jane, his arms wrapping around her in a comforting embrace. It felt oddly..._right_. Jane murmured again, her lips brushing Sherlock's cheek this time, feathery against his stubble. Plagued by another set of pleasant shivers, he found himself tightened his hold around her, holding her as close as possible. He propped his head upon hers. Her smell tickled his nose, a tantalizing scent to him. (She had, of course, taken the liberty of showering the day before.)

_What am I doing?_ he thought, inhaling her scent again. _What are you? Some schoolboy again?_

"Sherlock."

A whisper that sent Holmes's heart pounding. Sherlock looked down at Jane, for it had been her that had spoken. A small smile touched the corner of her lips, and a soft, contented sigh slipped past her lips, though Holmes was positive she was deep in sleep. He wanted her to stay in his arms for an eternity, so that he could hold her forever and caress her.

_Where are all these thoughts_ coming_ from?_ he wondered, propping his chin back up on Jane's head.

As he attempted to come up with an answer, his eyes fluttered close, and he slipped into oblivion.

Watson arrived an hour later, Mary accompanied on his arm. He opened the door to Sherlock's room, and he and his fiancé stepped inside. Watson stopped in his tracks. His eyes fell upon Holmes and Jane, sleeping and wrapped up in each other's arms. It all looked platonic, yes, but it was a startling sight nevertheless.

"Holmes?" Watson called. "Holmes?"

Holmes stirred and turned to look at Watson, not at all comprehending the look on Watson's face. In fact, he saw only blurred images, sleep still clinging onto him tightly. He went back to resting his head against Jane's, eyes fluttering close again.

"That is she?" Mary asked quietly, gesturing at Jane.

"Yes," Watson answered, eyebrows knit together slightly.

"She seems to have quite the impact on Holmes," Mary pointed out.

"Indeed." Watson cleared off a seat for Mary and sat next to her, his eyes never leaving Sherlock and Jane.

"Do you think that Holmes is developing feelings for her?"

Watson glanced at Holmes's face, which looked so peaceful and uncreased for once. "Yes, Mary," he answered. "I just don't think Holmes realizes it yet."


	5. Chapter 5

Jane shifted against Holmes, a small groan passing from her lips. She opened her eyes and blinked. Her head snapped up as she glanced around herself, and she suddenly turned, facing Watson and Mary.

"Dr. Watson!" she exclaimed. "And you must be Mar - oof!" In an attempt to extract herself from Sherlock's arms, Jane had rolled off the couch and landed on the floor.

"Are you alright?" Watson asked, jumping to his feet.

"Fine, fine," Jane answered, crawling on her hands and knees until she reached a chair with which she could pull herself up.

"John has told me much about you," Mary said, her hand upon Watson's knee.

"Has he?" Jane raised an eyebrow. "There's not much not good to say, I assure you." She smiled weakly and went over to the couch again. "I am sorry you came upon us in such a manner," she said. "Sherlock and I have not slept in days."

"Yes, John told me as such."

Jane reached out and touched Sherlock's shoulder lightly. "Sherlock? Sherlock, wake up. Dr. Watson and Miss Morstan are here."

Sherlock's eyes snapped open, and he stood abruptly to his feet, swaying precariously. Jane steadied him with a hand upon his shoulder. Holmes blinked repeatedly, attempting to clear away the sleep from his eyes. He moistened his lips, gaze darting between Watson and Mary.

"Madam," Sherlock addressed Mary, bowing slightly. He turned to Watson. "How long have you been here?"

"Not long," Watson answered.

"No more than twenty minutes," Mary supplied, not at all smiling in Holmes's direction.

Sherlock cleared his throat nervously, casting a glance at Jane, trying his best to keep his face from being flushed. He had not expected Jane to wake up with his arms still around her. He could only fantasize what she was thinking about. She gave him a small smile and walked around Watson and Mary, arms reaching up into the air as she stretched. Sherlock's eyes followed her, his gaze traveling from the tip of her fingers to the Achilles heel of her feet. Watson watched him with a peculiar expression, trying to decipher Holmes's gaze. He wasn't exactly sure what he saw reflected in the sleuth's eyes.

"Holmes," Watson began, feeling the need to break the silence, "I brought Mary in the hopes that she could become acquainted to you."

Sherlock looked at Watson and couldn't help but laugh. "What is there to be acquainted to?"

"Surely not his habits," Jane said from the other side of the room. "Sherlock, have you anything to drink?"

"Such as?"

Jane shrugged and glanced at the glasses filled with whiskey, cognac, and bourbon. "I shall pour something myself."

Mary twisted in her seat and looked hard at Jane. Jane, not at all appearing to notice that all eyes were on her, took out a clean glass and selected the cognac. She poured a generous amount for herself and asked, without looking, "Would any of you like anything to drink?"

"Tea," Mary said, a slight edge to her voice.

"Whatever you are having, Jane," Sherlock said. "Nanny! Tea, please!"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes!"

Sherlock sat down on the edge of the couch and ran a hand through his hair, eyes darting uneasily between Watson and Mary. Jane came forward with two glasses of cognac and handed one to Sherlock. She did not join him on the couch, however. She stood to the side of all three of them, staring hard at the table in front of the couch. All eyes were again on her as she lifted the cognac to her lips. With a light smirk and deep inhalation, Jane tossed the entire drink back in one gulp. Eyes screwed tight, she swallowed thickly, her hand tightening on her glass. She opened her eyes after a moment and smiled, turning to Sherlock.

"Excellent cognac," she said, setting the glass down on the small coffee table. She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand.

"Where are your _manners_!" Mary cried, repulsed and disgusted.

Sherlock almost leapt to his feet to defend Jane. He restrained himself, however, and watched Jane's smile slip into a thin line, a look of 'isn't-it-obvious?' in her eyes.

"My manners," Jane said, "are reserved for special occasions, if I should ever encounter myself attending one."

A look of disgust and horror crossed Mary's face. She turned to Watson, appalled. "You said she was not lady-like, but this is, by far, the most degrading I have ever seen a lady be!"

Jane laughed and picked up her glass again, heading back over to the liquor cabinet. As she poured herself another glass of cognac, she said, "The rules of society are a bit prejudiced, Miss Morstan. Just because I am female, I am not necessarily required to act like a lady, am I?"

Sherlock couldn't help but smirk. Watson glared at him. Holmes dropped his smile and shrugged, finishing off his glass of cognac in another gulp. Jane continued to amaze and perplex him. Mary let out a noise of repulsion.

"Yes, you _are_ required to act like a lady. You cannot go out into society with manners like that!" Mary's voice had risen a notch.

Jane tossed back half of her second glass of cognac. Exhaling explosively, murmuring again, "Excellent cognac," she fixed Mary with a baleful expression. "Miss Morstan, you are not my superior, and thus I am not necessarily inclined to do what you ask of me." Jane finished the rest of the cognac and burped quietly, her hand on her mouth. She set her glass aside.

"And you have her _boarding_ with you!" Mary exclaimed, staring at Watson.

"Not me - Holmes." Watson lay a reassuring hand on Mary's arm. "She is boarding with Holmes."

"And having a considerably fun experience from it!" Jane cried from her corner, plopping herself down in a chair by the liquor.

Holmes laughed, a broad, boyish smile stretching out across his face. Watson glared at him again. Brow furrowing, Sherlock asked, "What? Why do you look at me like that, Watson?"

Watson shook his head. "I doubt Miss Heathrow was anything like this before she met you, Holmes. I am amazed by your depravity!"

Jane sighed and groaned audibly from the corner. "Oh, Dr. Watson, could you please refrain from arguing with Sherlock again? I am becoming quite agitated from all your bickering. And it is not Sherlock's depravity that you should be concerned about." When Watson shot an inquiring glance at her, Jane merely gave him a vague, mysterious smile and propped her feet up on the liquor cabinet.

"Do you own a single article of feminine clothing?" Mary asked, still trying to recover from her revulsion.

"If I did, it would no doubt be shredded or burned by now." Jane gave another smug smile.

"John," Mary said, turning to Watson, "we must make sure that Jane is fitted for some new attire."

Startled, Jane tipped the chair backward and fell on her back. Getting to her knees, she stared at Mary wide-eyed. "You mean, dresses?"

"Yes, I mean dresses," Mary answered.

"Great Scott, no!" Jane shook her head fiercely. "I _abhor_ dresses."

"You have no choice." Mary stood to her feet and looked down at Watson. "I would like to go, John, before I am sick."

Jane heaved a groan of frustration and fell down on her back again. "You cannot expect me to wear a dress!"

Mary scowled and headed for the door. Watson leapt ahead of her and opened the door for her, a look of helplessness drawn into his face. He turned to Sherlock and cast his glance between Holmes and Jane.

"The two of you disgust me! I cannot _believe_ you both!" he cried.

"I believe, Dr. Watson," Jane said from her place on the floor, "that you have stated that before. I understand your revulsion to my habits, and I am sorely disappointed that you cannot tolerate the way I am. I hope that all goes well with explaining to Mary that you will only suffer this torture, if you will, for only a few weeks more, and that I will never submit to her plans of putting me in a dress."

Watson scowled and slammed the door behind him deliberately. Sherlock got up slowly from the couch, twisting the empty glass in his hand continuously. Jane sighed again, still sprawled out on the floor. Whether or not the cognac had hit her system, Holmes could not tell. He set his glass down on the liquor cabinet and looked down at Jane. She looked back up at him, her eyes regretful.

"I am sorry," she said, shaking her head. "I am only causing trouble. I should leave."

"No! I - I don't want you to leave." Sherlock crouched down beside Jane. "I am enjoying your company too much to have you leave now."

Jane chuckled and shook her head. She reached up and cupped Sherlock's cheek, making him inhale sharply, his body going slightly rigid. Holmes couldn't tell if Jane had noticed his reaction or not. She merely continued to smile up at him.

"You are a character," Jane stated quietly, her hand cool against Sherlock's cheek. "Had I the choice to be entertained by the Queen or by you, I would spend my day with you without even thinking about it."

Sherlock found he couldn't speak, his mouth drier than cotton. Jane sat up and pressed her lips against his cheek, her lips soft against his stubble. Leaning back and smiling warmly at him for a moment, Jane patted the other cheek with her hand and got to her feet. Startled, Sherlock still crouched in the same position, thoughts racing and yet seemingly frozen at the same time. His heart palpitated in his chest, making it hard for him to breathe evenly. He turned slowly, his eyes following Jane as she went over to the couch and stretched out on it, her legs hanging off the arm rest.

Swallowing thickly, Sherlock slowly got to his feet and asked, in an attempt to hide his odd reaction to Jane's kiss on the cheek, "What happened to your feet?"

Jane spoke a second too late, piquing Sherlock's attention. "Nothing of importance."

Brow furrowing slightly, Holmes said, "It surely looks like something of importance. You've had your feet bandaged for a week."

"You've noticed."

"I am a man of deduction, Jane," Sherlock said, pouring himself a glass of whiskey. "I notice the little details."

"Indeed." Jane waved her hand in such a manner that Holmes understood he should leave the topic alone.

"What do you think of Watson's fiancé?" Sherlock asked, sitting in a chair across from Jane.

"Miss Morstan?" Jane pursed her lips, an action that brought a small smile on Holmes's face, though he did not know why. "Contrary to your belief, Sherlock, I believe that she might be the one for Watson. It almost seems like Fate for the two of them." Jane fixed Sherlock with an unreadable gaze. "One cannot run from Fate forever or elude her design upon your life."

Sherlock shivered, his mouth growing dry again, the whiskey in his throat burning. Jane's gaze was so intense that Sherlock could not look away. In fact, he felt drawn to her gaze, an insistent tugging in his chest. He moistened his lips with whiskey and forced himself to look away, feeling his heart pushing up into his throat.

"Some things, I suppose," Jane continued, "are just meant to be. Some encounters and accidents may just seem to be a part of life, but some of them, I believe, happen for a reason."

"Such as?" Holmes asked quietly, looking down at his cup.

Silence.

"Such as you running into me."

Holmes looked up slowly, meeting Jane's intense gaze again. Her eyes softened. There was something in her pupils that Sherlock could not place. He found he could not look away again, and the silence stretched between them, not uncomfortably, but not exactly comfortably, either. Sherlock couldn't think properly, couldn't form coherent thoughts as he continued to look at Jane, losing himself in her dark eyes.

"You think that was Fate?" he heard himself asked, his voice still quiet.

"I would like to think so," Jane answered, her voice dropping to match Sherlock's. "What other reason would the great detective who pays so close attention to everything not notice that he was going to run into someone in the street and knock that person over?"

_Perhaps she is right_, Sherlock thought to himself, still unable to turn away from her gaze. _How did I not notice? Is it truly the hands of Lady Fate? What purpose was there in running into Jane?_

"You were enjoying earlier," Jane stated, an inquiring flame sparking in her eyes.

Realizing what she meant, Sherlock straightened in his chair, fire rushing into his cheeks. He coughed nervously and swallowed down the rest of his whiskey. "Well, I was asleep. I had no idea what was happening."

"Indeed." Jane's eyes were impassive, but Sherlock detected a faint smirk on her lips.

"It was nothing."

"Of course."

Awkward silence stretched between the two now. Jane glanced at one of the clocks and passed a hand through her hair. "I suppose," she said, "that it isn't too early for supper?"

"I suppose not," Sherlock said, sensing that Jane seemed disappointed by something. "Shall we go out and dine?"

Jane looked up and raised an eyebrow. "Go out and dine?" she repeated.

"Only if you would like to," Sherlock said quickly, turning the empty glass repeatedly in his hands.

"I don't suppose it would hurt," Jane murmured, swinging her legs over the couch and climbing to her feet.

"Excellent," Sherlock said. "Shall we leave in twenty minutes?"

"Less than that," Jane said, and she smiled.

As she headed off to her room, Sherlock let his eyes wander after her. For a moment, he stood there, still turning the glass furiously in his hands.

_What a woman,_ he thought, and he rushed over to his bureau in an attempt to find something worthy to wear.


	6. Chapter 6

It had nearly been two weeks since Watson and Mary had visited Sherlock and Jane. Only days away from moving in with Mary, Watson was busy packing the last few items away. Sherlock knocked on Watson's door quietly, sighing heavily.

"Who is it?"

"Holmes."

Sherlock waited somewhat impatiently for Watson to open the door. He heard the doctor cross the room and turn the doorknob, pulling open the door to allow Sherlock inside. Holmes stepped sufficiently enough inside for the door to shut behind him. His gaze fell upon the valises and satchels in the middle of the room. Everything else, aside from the book case, was bare.

The two stood in silence, Holmes staring at the floor, Watson's gaze drawn to his packed belongings. The quiet around them was oppressive, stifling. Sherlock moistened his lips, opened his mouth to speak, and thought better of it, his face settling back into a blank expression.

"How is Jane?" Watson finally asked, his voice quiet.

"Miserable."

"Miserable? Why is that?"

Sherlock sighed and shook his head. "She believes that, though our...dispute is over Mary, she is only making things worse. She hasn't slept in days. When she's not drinking, she's playing away on that piano. Just earlier today, she came out of her bedroom with her fingers bandaged."

"By Jove," Watson exclaimed, looking up at his friend. "Surely she is intelligent enough to realize that she has nothing to do with the matter."

"Surely," Holmes echoed, running a hand through his hair. He slid his hands into his pockets and finally glanced at his friend. "Nevertheless, I..." Sherlock sighed again. "Damnit, Watson, I wish you wouldn't go."

"Oh, really?" Watson's face contorted an expression of disbelief. "Maybe if you weren't so jealous of Mary, then - "

"Jealous!" Sherlock turned on Watson sharply. "Jealous! I'm not jealous - I'm upset! Horrified!"

"Horrified? Of _what_?"

"Of losing my brother!"

Silence sprung up between them again. Holmes passed a hand over his face, his gaze dropping to the floor again. Watson shifted his weight uncomfortably, his eyes upon Sherlock. Holmes rubbed the back of his neck and sighed.

"Jane was right," he said quietly, "when she said that I am afraid of losing you. She was right when she said that we are brothers - at least, you are a brother to me. As she also said, you are the only person I can trust wholeheartedly, the only friend I have." Sherlock sniffed and tugged at his nose with his thumb and index finger.

"Is that why you are so set on destroying Mary's and my engagement?"

"You have to understand, my dear Watson, you are about to enter a huge commitment, and - "

"Yes, Holmes," Watson couldn't help but snap, "I _am_ about to take upon a grandiose commitment. Unlike you, I know how to keep to my commitments and pledge myself wholeheartedly."

Sherlock winced, and Watson immediately regretted his choice of words. He sighed heavily, passed a hand over his face, too, and paced away from Holmes. He stopped over at his bureau and turned around, his gaze flicking up to Sherlock's.

"I'm sorry, Holmes." His voice was sincere, weary. "I just can't deal with you acting like a total ass. Your words and actions are threatening my engagement with Mary, and I won't stand it any longer."

"I understand." Sherlock shook his head and looked levelly at his old friend. "And that is why I have come to wish you the best of luck."

"Luck?" Watson spluttered. "Luck? Holmes, you don't believe in luck."

"But you do, and I felt it would be appropriate to express it to you." Sherlock shoved his hands deep into his pockets, his gaze unwavering. "I _have_ been acting like a total ass, and I am sorry. I do hope that you and Mary have a good marriage and a wonderful life."

Sherlock turned to the door, hand reaching out for the knob. Watson, startled by Holmes's sentiment, took a step forward, saying, "Holmes," to catch the sleuth's attention. Sherlock, door half opened, glanced at his companion.

"Just because I'm marrying Mary does not mean that I will no longer be your brother," Watson stated quietly. "You can't just expect me to leave you. You'd have killed yourself or been killed before morning."

A faint smirk touched Sherlock's lips. "Indeed, my dear Watson, indeed."

Holmes headed back to his room, feeling considerably lightened. At least that was one thing that was settled in Sherlock's mind. The smirk still on his lips, he was about to open his bedroom door when he recognized the familiar tread of Watson. Glancing over his shoulder, his brow furrowed.

"Is there something wrong?" he asked, turning to his companion.

"I wanted to check up on Jane," Watson answered. "If she's as burdened as you say, she may be sick."

"Excellent thinking, Watson."

Sherlock pushed open his door and stepped inside, Jane's name upon his lips. Sprawled out on the couch, Jane lifted her head abruptly and pushed herself up onto her elbows, her gaze darting between Watson and Holmes, eyes wide, pupils slightly dilated.

Watson was the first to step forward. "How much have you drunk?" he asked, glancing at the empty glass on the floor by Jane.

"More than I should have." Jane chuckled and hauled herself upright, gaze finding Sherlock's over Watson's shoulder. "I hope all has been resolved..."

"Yes." Watson crouched in front of Jane and grabbed her wrist, checking her pulse.

"Much has been mended," Sherlock affirmed, kicking the door shut with his heel.

Watson reached up to check Jane's eyes. She batted his hand away and stood to her feet. As Watson began to protest, Jane pressed her finger to his lips and shook her head, her free hand passing over her face wearily.

"I assure you, Dr. Watson," she said, "I have been worse off before. I know my limits."

Watson sighed and shook his head, Jane's finger dropping away from his lips. Sherlock realized he had stiffened, and he did his best to relax, hoping that neither Watson nor Jane had noticed the tension. As to why he had tensed, Sherlock, himself, did not know - a thought that troubled him deeply.

"Someone is at the door," Jane suddenly said, snapping upright. "A woman."

As if on cue, a light knock sounded on Sherlock's door. Watson stared at Jane, wondering how she had known. What perplexed him more was how Holmes _hadn't_ known. As of late, whenever in Jane's presence, Watson had noticed that Holmes had been considerably distracted, to the point that he overlooked the smallest of details, things he would have noticed had Jane not been in the room. Puzzled, Watson watched Sherlock open his door.

"Irene!" It came out more a startled gasp than a statement.

Indeed, the esteemed criminal Miss Irene Adler stood in the doorway, looking at Sherlock smugly. "Good morning, Holmes," she said coyly, brushing by him.

As soon as she saw Jane, Irene stiffened. A hint of anger flashed in her eyes, but it was immediately masked. Jane stepped forward, her own eyes shifting into a blank expression.

"You must be the infamous Miss Adler," Jane said, extending her hand. "Pardon my appearance - I haven't slept in days, and I am not exactly as sober as I could be."

Irene took the hand tentatively and shook it quickly, only lightly pressured. Jane's grip was tight, more of a handshake attributed to a male rather than a female. Irene snatched her hand back as quickly as possible.

"And you are?" she asked, not at all concealing the venom in her voice.

"Jane Heathrow." Jane wiped her hand across her trousers and turned to Watson. "I do believe that you are done evaluating my current health."

"Ah, yes." Watson headed for the door, gaze darting between Jane and Irene. He sensed a hostility in the air that had not been there before. He turned to Sherlock on his way out. "Be careful," he warned, in case Sherlock, by some chance, hadn't noticed the tension in the air.

"Indeed," Holmes murmured, his eyes wide as he, too, glanced between the two women. He shut the door behind Watson and took a few tentative steps forward.

"Had I known you were entertaining a visitor," Irene said, casting a sidelong glance at Sherlock, "I would have come a different time."

Jane chuckled and stepped away from Irene, heading over to the liquor cabinet. "I must inform you, Miss Adler, I am no visitor. I am boarding with Sherlock."

Jealousy and restrained fury crackled in Irene's eyes. She turned to Sherlock. "Is this true?"

"Ah, yes." Holmes nodded his head curtly. He hurried over to Jane as she reached into the cabinet. "No, Jane, I think you have had enough for today."

"You cannot keep me from the liquor cabinet forever," Jane grumbled, rolling her eyes.

Irene watched the exchange with barely restrained fury. Jane slipped away into her bedroom, the door slamming shut behind her deliberately. In another moment, loud music, emanating from the piano, seemed to phase through the walls and door, filling the two rooms with sound. Irene glanced at Holmes and was disgusted to find his gaze lingering on Jane's bedroom door, a faint smile twitching at the corner of his lips.

"Ahem."

As if snapping from a trance, Holmes turned to Irene. "Yes, Miss Adler. What brings you here?"

"I came to see you, my dear Sherlock." Irene's voice turned coy, playful. She settled herself down on a chair, her legs crossed in the most sexiest manner possible.

_So different from Jane,_ Holmes thought, noting the action only briefly. He took a seat across from Irene, keeping a good distance from her. They sat in silence, and Irene studied Holmes thoughtfully. She watched in revulsion and anger as Sherlock's gaze darted toward Jane's bedroom now and again. He seemed to be lulled by her music, which only gave Irene cause to become more upset.

"Have you missed me, Holmes?" Irene asked, trying her best to be as coy and seductive as possible.

Sherlock, more than distracted by his 'roommate', if you will, slowly turned his head to look at Irene. "No, I haven't missed you at all."

"That hurts, Sherlock." Irene's hand fluttered to her chest. "Is that any way to treat me?"

"You are a criminal - a thief. How _am_ I supposed to treat you?" Sherlock's voice was flat, his whole demeanor suggesting that his statement was more than obvious.

"Surely better than this." Irene crossed her legs again and was angered to find that Sherlock didn't even glance at the action. "Why is she boarding with you?"

"Who, Jane?" Sherlock's eyes flitted over to Jane's door again. "She needed it. She is such an intelligent mind." A wistful tone crept into Holmes's voice.

Irene leapt to her feet and strutted over to Sherlock coyly, catching his attention. With a forwardness uncharacteristic of most women of the era, she plopped herself down on Sherlock's lap, her legs crossing. One arm around his neck, the other hand cradling his cheek, Irene smiled deeply into Sherlock's eyes.

"Oh, Sherlock," she said, playing up her seductive voice, "you don't know how _much_ I've missed you."

"Dear Lord, Irene," Sherlock began, bringing up his hands to push her away, "you sorely misinterpret my - "

Jane's bedroom door opened, and she poked her head out. Sherlock turned his head abruptly, his eyes locking with Jane's. Something flickered in her pupils, but it was gone before Holmes could read what it meant. Jane ducked back into her bedroom.

"I hope I haven't disturbed anything," she stated. The door shut with a harsh click.

Irene smiled to herself and directed her attention back to Sherlock. "Now, where were we? Oh, yes." She leaned forward, both hands cupping Holmes's face.

"No, Irene." Sherlock's tone was harsh, and he stood up abruptly, nearly throwing Irene to the floor in the process. "I have had enough of your foolish games."

Taken aback, Irene dusted herself off, her brow furrowing ever so slightly. She glanced around and frowned, her gaze finally settling back down on Holmes. "Sherlock," she began, voice quivering with puzzlement, "what happened to my photograph?"

Sherlock exhaled explosively and fixed Irene with a harsh glare. "I destroyed it."

"What?" Irene's voice wavered with disbelief and hurt.

"I realized that it served no purpose."

Irene stared hard at Sherlock, searching his gaze, desperately trying to find the thread of awkward feelings that she had always seen whenever she was around him. She was disappointed to find that she could not see that thread. It struck her immediately as she continued to stare at Holmes's cold, calculating gaze. He no longer harbored feelings for her. Dear Lord.

"Miss Adler," Sherlock said, completely aware of Irene's hurt, "I don't want to see you again. Should I come across your path in the future - or should you seek me out - I will not refrain from reporting you to Scotland Yard. I'm sure they would appreciate discovering the identity of the uncatchable thief."

Hurt and fuming, Irene stormed off toward the door. She opened it and glared at Sherlock over her shoulder. "You will regret this, I assure you," she said. "You will come to realize that you have lost what could have been."

She slammed the door shut behind her, causing the whole room to rattle. Sherlock watched her go and sighed wearily, passing a hand over his face. Walking over to the liquor cabinet, he selected the cognac and poured himself a generous amount. Adjourning to the couch, he drank the alcohol greedily. It was only after he had finished half the drink that he stopped to think.

What Irene had discovered was true - all feelings that Holmes had harbored for her, romantic and otherwise, had been eradicated. The photograph of Irene that Sherlock had kept over the years had indeed been destroyed the day before Jane had arrived to move into her new place of residence. With a start, Holmes was hit with an epiphany.

His feelings for Irene had been demolished the moment he had heard Jane's voice and had listened to her talk about symbols. No, even before that - the moment he had run into her on the street.

Holmes swallowed thickly, trying to understand what the epiphany meant. Could he stomach the thought?

"Sherlock?"

Jane's hesitant voice broke Sherlock's thoughts. She stepped out of her room, head turning to see if Irene was still in the room. Holmes watched her as she approached the couch. Gazing at her, he couldn't help but smirk inwardly as he noticed her upturned collar.

"I hope I didn't interrupt anything earlier," she said.

"No, no, not at all. You saved me from an awful situation." Sherlock found himself smiling gratefully, that lopsided, boyish grin stretching out across his face. He sat upright and gestured to the seat beside him on the couch.

"Did I really?" Jane's eyebrow rose in disbelief as she took the offered seat. "You two seemed to be enjoying yourselves."

"Not at all," Sherlock assured. "At least, I wasn't." He caught sight of Jane's eyes flickering again. This time, he was quick enough to decipher it.

_Relief?_ he thought, perplexed. Jane reached out and plucked the glass of cognac from Holmes's hand, their fingers briefly touching. He relinquished it without protest and watched Jane swallow the rest of the contents. The idea of Jane drinking from his glass, no doubt tasting his saliva, sent a shiver down Sherlock's spine. He found his arm extending, and he brushed some stray hairs away from Jane's cheek. He felt Jane stiffen beneath his light touch, her eyes registering surprise.

"In case you were wondering, there is nothing between Miss Adler and me," Sherlock said quietly, his hand coming down to rest on Jane's shoulder. "I assure you."

"I don't know how that is relevant, but - "

"Shh." Sherlock pressed his finger to Jane's lips. "You need some rest."

Holmes was appalled to find himself drawing Jane close. She went rigid in his arms, and he stretched out awkwardly on the couch, pulling Jane with him. Her head rested on his shoulder, somewhat on his chest, forehead brushing his neck. Sherlock's eyes fluttered close; he was startled to feel content as Jane's arms hesitantly returned the embrace.

_What am I doing!_ Sherlock cried inwardly. He made no effort, however, to correct his actions and pull away from the embrace. He felt Jane relax, and in a few moments, she was sound asleep, her breathing shallow, but steady. She was warm against him and undeniably soft and comforting. Holmes adjusted his arms around her, his nose in her hair, taking in her scent.

_Lord forbid Watson or the nanny walk in_, Sherlock thought for a brief moment, before he, too, felt the familiar tug of sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: **There are some sexual themes/implications in this chapter. Read with caution. XP

* * *

"The country."

Jane looked up at Holmes, sprawled out on the couch in her usual manner. "What?"

Sherlock plucked a few strings on his violin listlessly. "We could go to the country."

Jane sat upright, propping her back against the couch's nearest armrest. Her feet, no longer bandaged, crossed at the ankles, legs stretching out lazily before her. "Now, why would you want to go to the country?"

Holmes shrugged and mumbled, "You could probably use some fresh air. And with Watson gone, I'm not privy to staying cooped up in here all day, knowing the room down the hallway is no longer occupied."

Jane stretched out her arm, palm open towards Sherlock. Holmes relinquished the violin to her and watched as she cradled the instrument in her arms, her fingers tracing the contours of the wood. Shivers traveled in rapid succession down Holmes's spine, an odd feeling settling down in his lower abdomen. He coughed, cleared his throat, and stood up abruptly, turning his body away from Jane's line of vision, should she look up. He swallowed thickly, edging behind his chair until only his upper body could be seen.

"I've never been to the country," Jane mused aloud, plucking the G string. "I didn't know you had a house in the country."

"It's my brother's house, actually."

"You have a brother?" Jane's eyebrow rose, her head cocked to the left.

"Everyone has siblings of some sort, no?" Sherlock replied.

"Except Watson, I suppose," Jane muttered, picking up the bow on the coffee table. She pulled it gently across the strings of the violin, drawing out a melancholy chord. She kept it lingering in the air – a painful lingering, wavering, waiting for release…an action that reflected Sherlock's current state. "What would we _do_ in the country?" Jane asked.

"Whatever you want," Holmes heard himself reply. He stiffened, his eyes widening in that way that made him look as though he were staring at some place between places. "Within reason, of course."

"Whatever _I_ want?" Jane's eyebrow rose even higher. "And what about you?"

"Yes, well, I'll find something to do. I always do."

"Says the detective who hasn't picked up a case in months." Jane's gaze was hard, blunt as a dull knife. "Holmes, you are going to lapse into insanity if you don't pick up a case soon."

"There is nothing of interest," Holmes stated curtly. "Nothing at all. Not since Blackwood was hanged."

"I see." Jane swung her legs over the edge of the couch and set the violin down, approaching Sherlock slowly. He refused to meet her gaze. "Nothing is _worthy_ enough to solve, merely because nothing so far as turned out to be a greater challenge than Lord Blackwood."

_Nothing except you,_ Holmes nearly voiced.

"And what if a case greater than that of Lord Blackwood's never comes along?" Jane asked, suddenly by Sherlock's side. "What if _nothing_ is _ever_ good enough? What then, Holmes? What will you do for the rest of your life? Fight in the ring for money? Lord forbid you need to ask Watson for money!"

Holmes's head snapped up, though his gaze drifted over Jane's head. "I'm thirsty. Would you like some bourbon? Whiskey?"

Holmes sidled away from Jane, her presence almost overpowering. Hands shaking, Sherlock pulled out a bottle of bourbon from the liquor cabinet and poured himself a large glass, nearly filling the cup to the top. Jane, still standing by the chair, said, "I'll have some whiskey. Half a glass, on the rocks."

Holmes happily obliged, tossing a few ice cubes into a clean glass before pouring the whiskey into it. He brought the glass to Jane, making an effort to put himself between something whenever he faced Jane. She took the glass from him and took a long draw, her eyes looking at Sherlock curiously as he sat down on the couch and crossed his legs awkwardly. He gulped at his bourbon greedily, again ignoring her gaze. Jane frowned and walked towards the window, glancing down at the street. The light, casting Jane in a silhouette, caused Sherlock to finally look at Jane.

Her hair, alight with fire, made her seem as though she were some heavenly being. The edges of her body – the lines and the contours – shimmered, illuminated by the midmorning sun. Holmes couldn't help but smirk, as he always did, upon seeing her unevenly rolled up pant legs and shirt sleeves. The smile faded as he noticed the glow upon her skin…and how he could see vaguely through her white dress shirt. He stared for a moment too long, lingering on her figure, before tearing his gaze away, feeling as though he were tarnishing Jane's…_innocence_. He tugged at his collar, suddenly finding the bourbon too scalding.

"Your brother lets you use his country home?" Jane asked, sipping at the remaining whiskey in her glass.

"He's my brother."

"Does he stay there all the time?"

"No. In fact, when I tell him I want to use his country home, he is sure to make sure that everyone vacates the premises." Holmes shook his head. "I don't see why."

Jane glanced over her shoulder at Holmes and smirked, her eyes twinkling. "I don't see why, either," she said. "I mean, surely you're _such_ a wonderful guest to be around."

"It depends on the company," Holmes retorted, swallowing the last of his bourbon. "It's only in Lestrade's company that I feel obliged to disregard all gentlemanly duties, especially when I am a guest."

"A guest for Lestrade?" Jane chuckled. "You mean to say that when he has put you behind bars you're a guest, right? Even I would disregard manners and etiquette if put into such a position." Jane turned back to the window. "But, really, Holmes, I don't see why most people abhor your company."

"I wouldn't say abhor. They…_dislike_ my company. In case you haven't noticed, I'm not the best person for company anyway."

"Well, I didn't have much of a choice, did I?" Jane held her faceted glass up to the light, letting the crystal refract the rays into a multitude of colors, bathing herself with flecks of opalescent color.

Holmes frowned. "You could have said no."

"I know."

Brow creased, Holmes stared hard at Jane, trying to read her body language. One hand in her pocket, the other rotating the glass in the sunlight, posture somewhat slouched, she looked no different than how she normally looked. Upon closer inspection, however, Holmes sensed a feeling of puzzlement from Jane. She seemed perplexed, perhaps in response to Sherlock's statement. It would explain her reply.

Jane slowly let her hand drop to her side, the empty whiskey glass hanging from a few of her fingers, her thumb sliding into her pocket. She cast another glance out the window, pensive, before turning away and striding over to Sherlock. She set the glass aside and slid onto the couch, her legs propping up on Holmes's knees as she leaned back against the other armrest. Holmes let his left hand rest on one of her legs, enjoying the feel of her skin against his, no matter how much he was arguing with himself inside, wondering why he was indulging in such pleasures, pleasures he had never experienced before.

The two intellectuals sat in silence, looking at each other, waiting for the other to speak and break the silence. Jane leaned forward and plucked the bourbon glass from Sherlock's grasp, setting it down next to hers.

"I'd love to go to the country," she whispered. "But I still have one question."

"Yes?"

"Has Watson ever gone to the country with you?"

"No."

A look of surprise registered in Jane's eyes; she nodded her head and leaned back onto the armrest, her legs shifting on Holmes's lap, brushing a little too close. Holmes swallowed thickly, exhaling slowly as another pleasurable shiver darted down his spine, settling deep in his lower abdomen again. Jane, thank God, didn't seem to notice.

"Then perhaps I shouldn't go," she stated, drawing Holmes out of his physical and emotional agony.

"And why not?"

"I wouldn't want to go someplace where Watson hasn't been to with you," Jane answered. "If Watson found out…wouldn't that make him jealous?"

"Jealous?" Holmes couldn't even fathom the idea of Watson being jealous. "There is nothing to be jealous about," he spluttered. "Watson has moved in with Mary, anyway, and I'm sure he prefers her company over mine at the moment."

"Perhaps," Jane murmured, looking at Holmes through half-lidded eyes. "Well, then, I suppose we should be packing for the country."

Holmes struggled to restrain his euphoria. "Yes, indeed."

Neither of them moved.

Jane let her eyes flutter close. After a few moments, she drifted off into sleep, her breathing slower, shallower. Holmes sat still, his gaze resting on Jane's peaceful face. He found his hand trailing over her leg, her skin passing beneath his fingertips. He shivered again, that same physical torture in his abdomen starting up. His fingers stopped at the bottom of Jane's rolled up pants, just above her knee. Holmes inhaled deeply and shifted out from under Jane's legs, standing up to his feet warily. His emotional turmoil was evident in his pants, and he hurried from the room, hoping that Jane wouldn't wake to find him in such a state.

_Perhaps taking Jane out to the country isn't such a good idea_, Sherlock thought, slipping into the bathroom. He locked the door behind himself and stared down at his predicament. _The two of you would be all alone out there._

The thought was felt in his lower abdomen for the umpteenth time. Holmes bit his lip and glanced over his shoulder at the door, wondering if Jane was up.

_No need to worry_, Holmes thought to himself. _Control._

He managed to relieve himself of his physical agony.

After cleaning up, Sherlock stepped out of the bathroom and went over to issue a telegram to his brother. Brief, it stated that he and a guest were going to the country home in two days time, giving his brother a day and half to clear everyone off the grounds. His brother wasn't privy to letting his housemaids and landlord be harassed by his younger brother.

Jane was still asleep on the couch. Holmes paused beside her and brushed a few stray hairs out of her face. She stirred and mumbled, "When are we leaving?"

"Two days from now."

"Okay…"

Jane lapsed into silence again, her breathing falling back to a regular, sleepy rhythm. Sherlock hefted Jane into his arms and carried her to her room, where he placed her onto her unused bed. She shifted, muttering something unintelligible, and curled up into the fetal position.

Holmes left her to sleep. In his room, Jane's door shut behind him, Sherlock picked up his violin and began to play a quiet, beautiful melody, letting himself fall into the lull of the music.


	8. Chapter 8

"Have you got your things, Holmes?"

"Yes, yes, just wait a moment." Holmes stuffed the last of his clean clothes into his satchel and hurried from his room.

"The landau won't wait forever," Jane said, smirking as she stood by the door, excitement weaving itself into her features. "Come, now, let's be off. I can't wait any longer!"

"Sometimes," he said, shutting the door behind him as he followed the girl down the stairs, "you are worse than Watson."

"Worse than Watson?" Jane glanced at Holmes over her shoulder. "Whatever do you mean? Watson is your best friend! What does that make me?"

Holmes was startled to find that he couldn't reply. An odd look crossed Jane's face, and she rushed down the rest of the stairs, her considerably light satchel slung across her shoulders in an extremely unladylike fashion. She handed her bag to the driver of the carriage, practically threw herself into the front seat of the landau. She beckoned impatiently for Sherlock, the deploring look in her eyes driving Holmes forward. After informing the driver of the destination, Holmes slid in across from Jane and settled into the seat, the space so tightly cramped that his knees touched Jane's.

The carriage lurched into motion, the horse straining at its reins to carrying on across the cobblestone. Jane shifted into a better position, preferring the seat adjacent to the window so as to watch the passersby. The two lapsed into silence for a while, Jane studying the outside world, Holmes studying Jane. Her excitement, contagious as it was, did not have a complete effect on Holmes. Enrapt by her profile silhouetted against the window pane, Holmes wondered for the umpteenth time whether or not being all alone with Jane in the middle of nowhere was a good idea.

"Sherlock," Jane murmured, "did you inform Watson of our whereabouts?"

"Of course I did," Holmes answered.

"I see…" Jane drew her attention away from the window and fixed Holmes with a penetrating glare. "You want to cause a commotion, don't you? When Watson finds out that the both of us are missing, and that we haven't left a note or informed him of anything, he will panic. Do you think he'll call Lestrade?"

"Lestrade wouldn't give a damn. He'd be glad to be rid of me."

"So you think."

"No. The real question I have been looking for an answer to is what do _you_ think?"

Silence descended like the veil on a bride-to-be moments before the beginning of the wedding. Jane looked away from Sherlock, focused her attention outside again. Holmes sought information from her posture, from the lines that deepened in her face. He found few answers, none of which resolved his question.

"Does it truly matter what I think?" Jane finally asked, still gazing out the window.

"Yes. It would certainly clear up some things."

"The great sleuth, the one who can determine some of the most obscure information just by using deduction and paying attention to details, doesn't know everything about me?" Jane's eyebrow rose incredulously. "Pity. Are you falling out of practice?"

"Me? Never."

"You haven't had a case in ages."

"No matter."

"And yet _you_, of all people, ask _me_ 'what are you thinking?'"

"Yes."

Jane sighed, shook her head. "Nothing, Holmes. I am thinking nothing."

"You lie."

"I am looking forward to the countryside."

"But you are thinking of other things."

"Don't we all?" Jane looked away, glanced down at their touching knees.

"What brought you to London?" Holmes persisted.

"I believe we had this discussion the day we met."

"Nevertheless," Holmes said, "I still don't understand. You have the whole world open to you."

"Do I, Holmes? Honestly? I am but a mere sixteen year old." Jane frowned. "Just a sixteen year old who is pressured by all to marry. I have few opportunities open to me, Sherlock, and should I marry, my opportunities drop from little to nothing in a matter of seconds, the moment I say, 'I do.'" Jane shuddered. "I hate to be stifled, Holmes. I have been stifled too much in my life by my family and by those I considered friends. I had no choice but to escape, to seek refuge elsewhere. London was the closest city that I could think of."

Holmes said nothing and let Jane ramble. He watched her fists tighten as she mentioned family; he sought clues from the way she knit her brow, from how she frowned as she talked about her lack of opportunities.

The landau bounced over a nasty rut, jostling Jane and Holmes. The horse guided the carriage right, and soon the cobblestone gave way to the dirt road that led to the country, and, ultimately, Holmes's brother's home. Jane pressed her finger against the glass, watching her body heat spread a thin layer of condensation against the cool window.

"To support myself," Jane continued, "I brought enough money for a few weeks. I placed bids on myself in the fights and dressed myself as a man so that no one would know I was a girl, let alone such a young one. I did well, although I have suffered from wounds here and there."

"You sought medical assistance, right?"

Jane shook her head. "And risk exposing myself? Hardly ideal, Sherlock. I treated myself, although I haven't done as good a job as I could have. Hence the array of bandages I carry."

"But your feet…I assumed those wounds were made from running barefoot on gravel."

"I suppose deceiving you is futile," Jane muttered, passing a hand over her face. "There have been a few who have discovered my true gender. Having deduced that I was all alone, they pursued me, as though I were some whore seeking work outside the whorehouse." Jane shrugged. "But, I need not worry about them now, do I?" She offered Holmes a grateful smile. "Had I not been assaulted only days before running into you, my dear Holmes, I would never have even _considered_ accepting your offer of residence."

Holmes's breath caught in his throat. He struggled to clear it, a vivid image of grotesque men clutching at Jane's clothes, trying to tear them from her body, rising in his mind. Nausea rolled in his stomach, but Holmes was overcome with the odd fluttering sensation in his stomach when he realized that Jane had called him 'my dear.'

"However did you escape their clutches?" Holmes finally asked, staring over Jane's shoulder with the familiar far-off expression his widened eyes took when he was trying to avoid revealing anything.

"Knives are a woman's best friend," Jane stated, shrugging as she turned her attention back to the window. "Yes, indeed."

"Knives?"

"Of course. What else does a woman working in a household have to defend herself? The nearest thing, more often than not, is the kitchen knife."

"I see." Holmes rubbed his eyes, feeling strained. "And are you particularly good with a knife?"

"It depends on your definition of good," Jane said. "Hopefully, you will never have to know just how good I am with a knife."

"Do you have a knife?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"On my person."

Holmes forced himself not to gape. "On your _person_?"

"Yes, Holmes. Just as Watson carries a blade in his cane, so do I carry a knife within easy reach." Jane shrugged again. "It is nothing, really. A simple blade for a simple girl."

"I would hardly define you as simple, Jane."

"But, Holmes," Jane said, facing Holmes, gaze unreadable, "you don't know me very well, do you?"

Holmes had nothing to say. Jane returned to her window, and Holmes struggled to stay seated as the carriage bounced over some obstruction. He stared down at his hands, wishing Watson were there to say something very suave-like and break the silence.

Mycroft Holmes's country home loomed ahead.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** Yay, I updated finally! Boy, it's been awhile since this story was updated, right?

Enjoy!

* * *

"It's so wonderful here!"

Holmes watched with intrigue as Jane meandered through the house, navigating her way through the various rooms and Victorian furniture. Her shoes clicked quietly against the wooden floorboards, echoing throughout the country home as though on the other end of a megaphone. Holmes restrained himself to keep from following the girl into the various rooms, having learned the layout of his brother's house years and years before. His last visit, with Watson, had been admittedly pleasant, if only mildly strained with the impending disaster of Watson's soon-to-be marriage. With a wistful sigh, one that betrayed the sadness he felt for his companion, Holmes made his way to his room on the furthest side of the house, cleverly placed and untouched by all manners of maids and house-cleaning services. The dust there could only be three times as thick as the dust back at home, but he looked forward to it with relish, knowing that, unlike back at 221B, the dust would never be disturbed unless he wished it.

"Odd." Jane's voice drifted from the room nearest to Holmes's. "They haven't a piano here. How interesting…"

"My brother," Sherlock stated, tossing his bags into his room, "hasn't the nerve to play since the death of our mother."

Jane materialized in the doorway and leaned against the doorframe as she asked, "She played much, then?"

"Very," Holmes replied, turning to face the girl. "It was one of the few things that made her happy."

Jane nodded, one eyebrow quirking in inquisition. "And what makes _you_ happy, Sherlock?"

Holmes met Jane's gaze with his characteristic wide-eyed stare, the stare of a man who sustained his mind with cocaine when his thoughts turned stagnant and he hadn't anything to occupy himself with. The brown eyes were unreadable in Jane's gaze, but she nevertheless sought the detective's face for an answer, for some trace of emotion that would lead her to better understand the man beneath the layers of eccentricity and awesome deductive powers.

"My work," he finally said – curt, clipped, and straight to the point. Brevity, his friend every once and a while when he chose, decided to befriend him once again in that instance, leaving nothing but speculation for Jane.

"In which case, then," Jane said slowly, glancing up at Holmes beneath her slender eyebrows, "you've not been happy for a long while."

Sherlock's eyebrows arched high on his head; his hands busied themselves by wrapping around and around the scarf he had pulled off from his neck. "And what makes you think that?"

Jane shrugged and sighed, her gaze dropping to the floor and the patterns of the wood's grain. "You've not had a case in a long while, so Watson has said. And if it's work that makes you happy, then you've been deprived of happiness for months, have you not?" Her eyes met his briefly – intense, direct. "You do realize that the Blackwood case was a once in a lifetime chance, and nothing else will most likely ever compare."

"You sound just like Watson."

"And is that such a crime?" Jane pushed herself off the doorframe. "He is the 'Good Doctor', is he not? That is much more to say that your title, Holmes."

Concealing the hurt in his chest well, Holmes turned away and picked up one of his bags, heaving the thing onto the thin mattress. "I came here to get away from such criticisms and accusations, not to be confronted with them full force."

"Oh, yes, but you don't mind me much, so you've said." Jane's voice came now from the hallway, startling Holmes, for the ease with which she had left on silent feet could only be equated to the sneakiness and stealth of a cat on his midnight prowl. Her voice faded and grew tinny, almost as dissonant as a failing phonograph. "But, enough of that. What shall we do here?"

"I haven't a clue," Sherlock muttered to himself, dumping the contents of his bag onto the bed. Sifting through the various papers and notebooks, along with a variety of knick-knacks that may have seemed useless to some but was vitally important for any situation Holmes might have come across, the detective was aware of the slow ticking of the clock, of each swing of the pendulum. He was not aware, however, of Jane's silent movements about the house as she went through this and that, observing and notating things in one of her many notebooks.

Their menial tasks occupied them for an amount of time that seemed relatively small in comparison to how long they would be staying at Mycroft's country home. Holmes, itching to do _something_ and having nothing of interest to pursue, wandered through the house until he located Jane in one of the adjacent rooms lying on the bed therein, eyes focused on the ceiling, unblinking. He paused in the doorway and stared at the girl momentarily, wondering why he felt the constrictions in his chest – constrictions he had never honestly felt before. Women, he had once told Watson, were never to be trusted, not any single one, and yet he had the feeling that he would trust Jane with his life – with anything that was his or could be his – and he would never be betrayed by her. Although far from a saint in her stained shirt, sloppy pants, and tousled hair, Jane had a heart of gold – albeit 70% gold, but gold nevertheless.

"I've always wondered what people do in the country," she said, her voice loud enough to be heard, but so quiet that it hardly could have carried across the room had Holmes not been right there. With her hand, she beckoned him to her side, and he found himself perched beside her on the bed, gazing down at her face. Her countenance, to his surprise and horror, was strained and marred with the lines of deep, heavy thought and weariness. Perhaps the sleep that had eluded the duo for days would finally come crashing down upon their shoulders and bow them to their knees with such force that they would have no choice but to succumb.

"I have the feeling," Jane continued, her fingers unconsciously coming to rest on Sherlock's hand, "that people in the country have nothing to do and spend their days in absolute boredom. Perhaps that's why doctors recommend going to the country every once in a while – the boredom surely must cure anyone of whatever ailment afflicts them, in that they have no option but to sleep it all away as their mind grows more and more stagnant." She shifted her gaze from the ceiling to Holmes's face, meeting his brown-eyed gaze unflinchingly. "And for those of us whose minds rebel stagnation?" She laughed a harsh, bitter laugh, more like the bark of a pestered dog than that of a human. "There is no hope."

"Watson seems to think so," Sherlock commented, intensely aware of the feel of Jane's skin against his. "He claims that the way I live will surely kill me."

"But you don't listen." A small smile touched the corners of Jane's lips. "And he's your best friend."

"I don't listen because it's not true." Holmes shifted on the bed, finding that he was easing himself more and more onto it. "I've been living in such a state for more than a couple decades, and I am still live and well."

"And yet you take cocaine and put yourself into dangerous situations that, without Watson's help, would have surely been the end of you."

"I can do anything with Watson's help – "

"Sherlock, you are in denial of how much Watson means to you and how much you value his company." Jane gave his hand a comforting squeeze. "Without Watson, you would have been dead and gone decades ago."

"On what data do you base such accusations?"

"Accusations?" Now her laugh was the musical laughter Holmes had grown fond of, the laughter that made his heart still in his chest and sent waves of warmth rolling through his body. "I would hardly call them accusations, Holmes. They are but mere observations."

"Observations are based on facts and data. Show me the data, and I will believe such lies."

The smile faded from Jane's face, and she looked away, her eyes glazing over for a brief, brief moment. "But Sherlock," she said, her voice quiet, striking him to the core, "there are some things in this world of ours that can never be proven by data." She closed her eyes and sighed. "Data is not the basis of everything."

"On what grounds do you think that?"

Jane shook her head, her eyes still closed. "If data is the concrete of this world, as you claim, what of human emotions?" She cracked open one eye, fixing the detective with her stare, drawing him in. "There is no data for human emotions, is there, Holmes?"

The words that slipped from Holmes's throat and hung in the air as a response surprised him more than the sudden hard-knocking of his heart within his chest.

"I suppose not."


	10. Chapter 10

"May I send a telegram?"

Holmes glanced over his shoulder at Jane, one eyebrow raised. "To whom?"

There was the slightest of changes to Jane's face, a twitch in her jaw, in her eyebrow. Holmes barely had a chance to notice the alteration in her countenance, so quick was the change. There was almost a hardening of her eyes, an intensity slipping into her unreadable gaze. For the first time since he had met her, Sherlock felt icy chills down his spine, instilled in him by the coldness in the brief second that Jane's eyes flickered in the late afternoon night.

"That is none of your concern," Jane replied. "Your brother wouldn't, perchance, have a telegraph, would he?"

Holmes shifted in his chair, the papers on his lap forgotten. "I believe there's one in the study."

Jane nodded and left the room, leaving behind a disturbed and ruffled Sherlock. Holmes watched her leave, his eyes lingering on the strange way Jane was carrying herself in regards to her frame. She turned around the corner, disappearing from view, this time leaving behind a curious, anxious Sherlock. Holmes glanced own at the mess of papers on his lap, his eyes tracing the scribbles that formed his trademark scrawl. They circled the page, forming intricate designs that only Holmes on cocaine could understand. Nevertheless, they seemed to come to a climax at the end of the top page, coming together to point in the direction Jane had gone. Sherlock's brow furrowed, eyebrows tightly knit together as he tried to pick up where he had left off – and yet, the arrow still beckoned, nagging at the back of his skull, bidding him to do what he did best: investigate.

Holmes found Jane in the study on the opposite end of the house, perched on the edge of a hardback chair handcrafted from the depths of the Horn. Holmes stayed outside the room, lingering on the other side of the door, straining to hear the characteristic taps and pauses of the telegraph. Morse code came readily to him, thus he needed only to hear the telegraph to decipher the message. At first, he heard nothing, only the slow pulse of his heartbeat and his restrained breathing. The chair creaked slightly as Jane repositioned herself. Silence descended, thicker than the quilt on Sherlock's bed, almost _tangible_ to the point that any movement would receive resistance. A horse whinnied in the distance, causing Holmes's shoulders to tense, sending pricks of pain up into his skull as the tension that already resided between his shoulders intensified.

Holmes knew Jane was _moving_ in there, doing _something_ despite the eerie silence, but not a sound came from the telegraph, not a single letter forming in the air from any telegram Jane might've been sending. The silence was _too_ thick, too convenient. Holmes shifted uncomfortably, still straining to hear anything – _anything_ – that could indicate what Jane was writing in her telegram, but to no avail. Something clicked-tapped against wood, jolting Holmes. The chair scraped back a few inches on the floor, punctuated by the click of Jane's feet as she stood up and replaced the cover on the telegraph. Incoherent, mumbled words drifted out to Sherlock's ears, indistinguishable despite the silence. The chair scraped back into place, quietly tapping against the wooden desk as it was put back into its proper alcove beneath the desk. Using all the stealth he could muster, Holmes hurried back to the other room, cursing every floorboard that creaked, groaned, and moaned beneath his supposedly 'light' steps.

Jane found the infamous sleuth sprawled in a rather unnatural position in his chair, papers strewn about as though he had run into them unwittingly. She shook her head and took her place across from him, a certain solemnity descending on her face. Holmes observed her beneath half-lidded eyes, noting how she tucked her legs up beneath herself when she had settled comfortably in her chair, notebook opened across her knees, pencil in hand. She didn't so much as _glance_ in his direction, and from the curve of her mouth – pulled into a thin, tight line – Holmes assumed she would be saying few words to him that night. For what reason, he hadn't a clue.

The silence that fell about them like a well-made blanket was laced with an underlying tension that Holmes felt but didn't understand. He frowned, the muscles in his neck beginning to throb. Although she was prone to long silences wherein she seemed to sulk about, the furrow in Jane's brow was completely uncharacteristic of her – or so Holmes gathered. He realized, quite unhappily, that he hadn't known the girl for that long – or properly, for that matter. Why he had ever offered her residence in his apartment was quite beyond him, but as to why Jane had accepted his proposition with hardly a second thought made him suddenly uneasy.

"My brother," Holmes said almost too loudly, the silence finally fractured, splintering into tiny cracks that brought down the quiet completely, "told me that a woman will come up from the house down the way to provide us with supper at six."

Jane nodded, her eyes glued to her notebook. "Good."

Holmes sat himself upright, unable to bear the painful contortionist act any longer. His frown deepened, as did the perplexity in his face. "Is there anything specific that you would like for supper?"

"No, thank you."

"Any beverage? Tea?"

"No, thank you."

Holmes pursed his lips in thought, his gaze focused intently on Jane's body language. "Any pastries or – "

Jane finally glanced up from her notebook, her eyes flinty – daggers to his soul, shredding at the thick walls that had been erected there so many years ago. Perhaps she would strike him to his very core with those daggers-for-eyes, cutting out his heart and slaughtering him right then and there, like some Aztec priest offering up a sacrifice to his Sun god.

"I said no, Holmes."

Sherlock, having unconsciously leaned forward with each question, slumped back against his seat, startled. Jane quickly returned to her work, the look he had seen in her eyes still lingering, even though she no longer looked at him. This wasn't the Jane Holmes had come to know in the weeks preceding that very moment. Perhaps her cycle had come around and the typical emotional imbalance, as Watson had often complained of in regards to Mary, was now exhibiting itself in Jane's normally docile personality – if docile was, indeed, her personality. At that point, Holmes wasn't sure anymore.

She had sent a telegram, not received one. Her actions were unprecedented, completely uncalled for in Holmes's mind. He picked up the nearest piece of paper that hadn't a scrap of writing on it and grabbed a pencil. Holmes wanted to pick up his violin and ruminate on Jane's anger but decided against it, knowing that the girl would recognize that he was ill at ease. No need for her to realize that he was on to her, if that's what he could believe, what with only knowing that she had been fine _before_ sending the telegram. Left with nothing else to do, Holmes put the pencil to paper and scribbled out his thoughts on the matter, using cryptic shorthand that would take Jane at least an hour to decipher should she come across it and become intrigued.

It may have been hours to Holmes, but it had only been minutes. Jane snapped her notebook close and arranged her things in a shamble pile away from Sherlock's things so as not to inadvertently mix her work with his. Holmes glanced up, hoping somewhere deep in his core that Jane's mood had already improved and that the anger she had exhibited was nothing more than a passing phase, a fleeting moment in which she had not been herself at all. He was disappointed to see the same absentminded, distant look on the girl's face, her gaze hardly focusing on him as she spoke in clipped tones.

"I'm going for a stroll," she stated, getting up from her chair. "I'll be back before six."

"Would you like my company – "

"I'd rather be left alone."

She left the room before Holmes could say anything more. He peered down the hall as Jane slipped into her coat and went out into the country, striding by the window without so much as a flicker of the eyes to look inside. Holmes leapt from the chair and rushed to the very window, eyes on Jane's diminishing figure. He was sure she had never been to this side of the country, let alone near his brother's home; how on earth could she know where she was going? Holmes darted through the house to the window nearest to her, peering through the different panes to determine her direction.

_I should follow_, Holmes thought, squinting to see Jane top the hill. _She doesn't want me to, but I should. She could get herself into trouble; danger is fond of young souls, especially women's._ He bit his lip, glancing between the door and the last place he had seen Erin. _Curse you, Watson_, he cried to himself, snatching his coat off his bed. _Curse you for not stopping me from getting into this mess._

The door banged shut behind him, left slightly ajar as the sleuth ran for the hills. Inside, the first of Jane's notebooks teetered off the pile, sliding into Holmes's work. It had opened to the first page in its stumble from above the floor; papers from Holmes's work covered most of the words, covered all but one.

_Traitor._


End file.
